Library  of  the 
University  of  North  Carolina 


[ 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


05 


PR  i;830 
.E8U 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


^  This  book  IS  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DIE                      •*" 

1             DATE 

DUE                       ^^^ 

1 

May  03  2 

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1 

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1 

j!&i«*ti*«^-:^"=-^       Ppf 

152006 

■  .'■ 

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orm  No  513 

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i 


^  THE 


POETICAL   WORKS 


OP 


JOHN    KEATS, 


BOSTON: 

DeWOLFE,  FISKE   &   COMPANY, 

365  WAsniNGTON  Street. 

1884. 
a 


CONTENTS. 


PACK. 

Endymion  :  A  Poetic  Romance         •     .      • 

5 

Lamia        ....... 

140 

Isabella  ;  or,  The  Pot  of  Basil 

i6s 

^  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 

185 

Hyperion             .           .                       .           •           . 

200 

Miscellaneous  Poems —                                      .  •     . 

Dedication.     To  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq.      . 

229 

Imitation  of  Spenser     .            .            .            .            , 

230 

/■    Ode  to  a  Nightingale     .            .            .            .            . 

231 

^    Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  .            .            .            .         - 

234 

To  Autumn         ..... 

236 

Ode  on  Melancholy —  .... 

237 

Stanzas   ...... 

.        238 

On 

239 

— iCXa  Belle  sans  Merci.     A  Ballad 

240 

•.  '    The  Eve  of  St.  Mark     .... 

242 

X  On  first  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

246 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander 

247 

On  a  Dream  - — .            .... 

247 

The  Day  is  Gone           .            .            •            • 

248 

Keats's  Last  Sonnet     .            •            •            • 

249 

'j'o  Spenser         ..•<>• 

249 

' 'o  Chatterton     .             .            •            •            • 

250 

'/o  Byron             .            .            •            •            . 

250 

On  the  Elgin  Marbles    .... 

251 

CONTENTS. 


pagb. 

To  Haydon,  enclosing  the  preceding  Sonnet  ^            .  252 

Sonnet    .......  252 

Written  before  Re-reading  King  Lear              .            .  253 

To  the  Nile        ......  253 

On  Visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns            .            .            .  254 

To  Burns.     Written  in  the  Cottage  where  he  was  Born  255 

Ben  Nevis           ......  255 

From  Rousard    .                         ....  256 

On  Seeing  a  Lock  of  Milton^s  Hair    .            .            .  256 

A  Reminiscence  of.  Claude's  Enchanted  Castle          .  258 

Written  in  Devonshire              ....  262 

Song        .......  264 

Written  on  May  Day    .....  264 

Meg  Merrilies    ......  265 

Written  after  Visiting  the  Birthplace  of  Burns           .  266 

Written  after  Visiting  FingaPs  Cave    .                         .  269 
A  Prophecy-                   .            .            .             •            .271 
A  Portrait            .             .             .             ...             .273 

A  Spenserian  Stanza      .....  274 

Fragment            .            .       '     .            .            ,            .  275 

Modern  Love— -r            .            .            .            .            .  275 

Fragment  of  "The  Castle  Builder"     .            .            .  '276 

Fragment            ......  278 

To .  .  .  .  .  .  .279 

An  Earlier  Version  of  "  Hyperion "    .            .            .  281 
The  Cap  and  Bells  ;  or,  The  Jealousies.  A  Faery 

Tale          ......  300 

Otho  the  Great.     A  Tragedy          ...  333 

ICiNG  Stephen.    A  Dramatic  Fragment     .           .  408 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ENDYMION: 

A   POETIC    ROMANCE. 

INSCRIBED   TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


THE   STRETCHED    METRE   OF  AN   ANTIQUE   SONG. 


PREFACE. 

Knowing  within  myself  the  manner  in  which  this 
Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling 
of  regret  that  I  make  it  public. 

What  manner* I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the 

reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience, 

immaturity,    and    every    error    denoting    a   feverish 

attempt,  rather  than  a  deed  accomplished.     The  two 

first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible  are 

not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  passing  the 

press  ;  nor  should  they  if  I  thought  a  year's  castigation 

would  do  them  any  good  ;-  -it  will  not :  the  foundations 

are  too  sandy.     It  is  just  that  this  youngster  should 

die  away :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not  some 

hope  that  while  it  is    dwindling  I  may  be  plotting, 

and  fitting  myself  for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and  may 

(s) 


END  YM ION. 


deserve  a  punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will  be  for- 
ward to  inflict  it :  he  will  leave  me  alone,  with  the  con- 
viction that  there  is  not  a  fiercer  hell  than  the  failure 
in  a  great  object.  This  is  not  written  with  the  least 
atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of  course,  but 
from  the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men  who  are  com- 
petent to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a  zealous  eye,  to 
the  honor  of  English  literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  ma- 
ture imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is 
a  space  of  life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  fer- 
ment, the  character  undecided,  the  way  of  life  un- 
certain, the  ambition  thick-sighted :  thence  proceeds 
mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which  those 
men  I  speak  of  must  necessarily  taste  in  going  over 
the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  bright- 
ness :  for  I  wish  to  try  once  more,  before  I  bid  it 
farewell. 

Teign MOUTH,  April  ip,  1818. 


END  YM ION, 


BOOK    L 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever  : 

Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness  ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darken'd  ways 

Made  for  our  searching  /^'es,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits^^    Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep  ;  and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake. 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms : 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read  : 

An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 


8  END  YMION. 


Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys  :  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din ; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests  ;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  sm.oothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write. 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage  ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See  it  half-finish' d  :  but  let  Autumn  bold, 


END  YM  J  ON. 


With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  ail  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness  : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'erhanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequester'd  deep, 
Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  stray'd  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens, 
Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens 
Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content, 
Over  the  hills  at  every  night-fall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds  'twas  believed  ever. 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  any  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head. 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay,  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.     Paths  there  were  many, 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny, 
And  ivy  banks  ;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  tuft  and  slanting  branches  :  who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above. 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree-tops  .'*  through  which  a  dove 


ao  END  YM ION. 


Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 

Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress 
Of  flowers  budded  newly  ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn  :  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds  :  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun  ; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him  ;  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass  ; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains  ;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  tenfold. 
To  feel  this  sunrise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded  ; 
Who  gathering  round  the  altar,  seemed  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday  :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  taint  breath  of  music,  which  even  then 
FiU'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 


ENDYMIOA\  11 


Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 

Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave, 

To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 

Through  copse-clad  valleys — ere  their  death,  o'ertaking 

The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd  light 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white, 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 
Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company. 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee : 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul,  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring, 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sinsr. 

Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along. 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd's  song ; 
Each  having  a  white  wicker,  overbrimm'd 
With  April's  tender  younglings  :  next,  well  trimm'd 
A  crowd  of  shepherds  with  as  sunburnt  looks 
As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books  ; 
Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe, 
When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinity  o'erflowing  die 
In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly  : 
Some  idly  trail'd  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground, 
And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 


12  ENDYMION. 


With  ebon-tipped  flutes  :  close  after  these, 

Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 

A  venerable  priest  full  soberly. 

Begirt  with  ministering  looks  :  always  his  eye 

Steadfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept, 

And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 

From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-white, 

Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light ; 

And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 

Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull : 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 

Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 

His  aged  head,  crowned  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth 

Of  winter  hoar.     Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  appear'd, 

Up-follow'd  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair-wrought  car 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown. 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully  blown, 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown  ; 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's  :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare. 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keenc 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance  ;  he  seem'd 

To  common  lookers-on,  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 


ENDYMIOl/.  13 


A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 

And  see  that  oftentunes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands  :  then  would  they  sigh, 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry, 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly. — Ah,  well-a-day. 

Why  should  our  young  Endymior  pine  away*. 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged. 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine  :  each  look  was  changed 
To  sudden  veneration  :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence  ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer. 
Stood  wan  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands. 
Thus  spake  he  :  "  Men  of  Latmos  !   shepherd  bands! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains  ;  whether  come 
From  valleys  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb ; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  hare-bells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold  ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  very  marge, 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn  : 
Mothers  and  wives  !  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  the  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 


14  ENDYMION. 


Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 

Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favor'd  youth  : 

Yea,  every  one  attend  !  for  in  good  truth 

Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 

Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 

Night-swollen  mushrooms  ?     Are  not  our  wide  plains 

Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?     Have  not  rains 

Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?     No  howling  sad 

Sickens  our  fearful  ewes  ;  and  we  have  had 

Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 

The  earth  is  glad  :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 

His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 

That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  sbrine  he  heaped  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  : 
Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile, 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
*Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  grayly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang : 

**  O  thou,  whos-e  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness  ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 


ENDYMION.  IS 


In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 
Jt5ethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now. 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

"  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Tassion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
Their  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn. 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low-creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh-budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  ! 

"  Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping-fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 


l6  ^  END  YM  10  AT. 


Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping  ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown- 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  ! 

"  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating  :  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :  Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms : 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds. 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

**  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain  :  be  still  the  leaven. 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity  ; 


ENDYMION.  ly 


A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea; 

An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 

An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 

With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 

And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending, 

Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Paean, 

Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  !  " 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close, 
A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose, 
That  lingered  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 
Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine, 
^leantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine, 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 
Ay,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 
To  tunes  forgotten — out  of  memory  : 
Fair  creatures  !  whose  young  children's  children  bred 
Thermopyloe  its  heroes — not  yet  dead, 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 
Time's  sweet  first-fruits — they  danced  to  weariness, 
And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 
The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 
Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 
A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 
Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 
On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 
Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 
Of  Zephyr  slew  him, — Zephyr  penitent, 
Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament, 

2 


I8  ENDYMION. 


Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 

The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain, 

Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft, 

And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 

Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 

Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 

Those  who  would  watch.     Perhaps  the  trembling  knee 

And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 

Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 

Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue 

Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip. 

And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 

Her  motherly  cheeks.     Aroused  from  this  sad  mood 

By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd. 

Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air, 

Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare  : 

After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 

Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  ways, 

Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 

There  shot  a  golden  splendor  far  and  wide. 

Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 

With  quivering  ore :  'twas  even  an  awful  shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow  ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating, 

Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there  :  to  nightly  call 


END  YM ION.  19 


Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple. couch  ;  to  emulate 

In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tail'd  exhalations  ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse, 

Into  Elysium  ;  vying  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs. 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring, 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails, 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales  : 

Who,    suddenly,  should    stoop  through    the  smooth 

wind, 
And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind  ; 
And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 
His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 
Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 
Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 
In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 
Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk ; 
Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 
Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors, 
Benighted,  close  they  huddled'  from  the  cold, 
And  shared  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all  out-told 
Their  fond  imaginations, — saving  him 


20  END  YM ION. 


Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 
Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 
To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 
His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 
His  senses  had  swoon'd  off :  he  did  not  heed 
The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 
Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 
Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 
Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms  ; 
But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 
Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept — 
Ay,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 
Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister :  of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she  made^ 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams. 
Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams,- 
Guarding  his  forehead,  with  her  round  elbow. 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall, 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush. 
Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky 
A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by. 
Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 


EA'DYMION.  21 


And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 

And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight, — 

Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 

Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite  ; 

Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 

Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove, 

Where  nested  was  an  arbor,  overwove 

By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering  ; 

To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 

Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery, 

And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favorite  bower's  quiet  shade, 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves. 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  tresses  shook, 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips, 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard 

O  magic  sleep !  O  comfortable  bird. 
Thai  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 


22  END  YMI02V. 


Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !  O  unconfined 

Restraint !  imprisoned  liberty  !  great  key 

To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 

Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves. 

Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 

And  moonlight ;  ay,  to  all  the  mazy  world 

Of  silvery  enchantment  ? — who,  upfurl'd 

Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 

But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  bower, 

Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 

Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 

He  said  :  "  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 

All  through  my  bosom  :  thou  art  as  a  dove 

Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 

About  me  ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 

Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 

As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 

From  those  kind  eyes, — the  very  home  and  haunt 

Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 

Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears? 

Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 

That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  day>. 

Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 

My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights  ;  once  more 

Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar : 

Again  my  trooping  hounds  tneir  tongues  shall  loll 

Around  the  breathed  boar  :  again  I'll  poll 

The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow ; 

And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 

Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 

To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 

Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet! 


ENDYMTON.  23 


And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  exclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashionin^ij^  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle-cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand ; 
For  stilly  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  she  saw 
Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside, 
And  earnestly  said  v  "  Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious, 
Immortal,  starry  ;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 
Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  t     Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent } 
Thy  deathful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent, 
Sacred  to  Dian  }     Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 
And  that,  alas  !  is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face!" 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 


24  EN-DYMION'. 


And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 

And  merry  in  our  meadows  ?     How  is  this  ? 

Tell  me  thine  ailment  :  tell  me  all  amiss  ! 

Ah  !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 

Wrought  suddenly  in  me.  What  indeed  more  strange  ? 

Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 

Ambition  is  no  sluggard :  'tis  no  prize, 

That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp, 

That  I  have  sigh'd  for  :  with  so  deadly  gasp 

No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 

So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 

These  things  which  happen.     Rightly  have  they  done. 

I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 

Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world, 

Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 

My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase — 

I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 

With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 

A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching  ;  frown 

A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire — 

To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  fire, 

And  sink  thus  low !  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 

Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky, 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood. 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves  ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 


END  YM ION.  25 


So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 

And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 

When  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins, 

And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 

His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 

There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 

Of  sacred  dittany,  and  poppies  red  : 

At  which  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 

That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell ; 

And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 

What  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook  ; 

Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 

Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth. 

Had  dipp'd  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 

Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought, 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and' distraught. 

Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 

A  breeze  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul ; 

And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light  ; 

The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and  dim 

And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim  : 

A.nd  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 

The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befell .'' 

Vet  it  was  but  a  dream  :  yet  such  a  dream 

That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 

With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring, 

Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 

All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Mcthought  I  lay 

Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 


26  ENDYMION. 


Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendor  pours  ; 

And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 

Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 

I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 

From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance : 

So  kept  me  stedfast  in  that  airy  trance, 

Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 

When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 

And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view  : 

At  which  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue, 

And  dropp'd  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge ; 

And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 

The- loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 

A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet  ;  she  did  soar 

So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 

Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roil 

Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 

At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  tent — 

Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 

Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 

To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  raised 

My  sight  right  upward  :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 

By  a  bright  something  sailing  down  apace, 

Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face : 

Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 

Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies  \ 

Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness  .'* 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  ? 

Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 

Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sun  ; 

Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister !  let  me  shun 


ENDYMION.  27 


Such  fallying  before  thee — yet  she  had, 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow ; 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 

Blush-tinted  checks,  half  smiles,  and  fa.intest  sighs 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah  !  see  her  hovering  feet, 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 

Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 

'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 

Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed, 

Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 

Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  EndymioUj,  Jiow  strange  ! 

Dream  within  dream  !  " — "  She  took  an  airy  range, 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid, 

Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid, 

And  press'd  me  by  the  hand  :  Ah  !  'twas  too  much  ; 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch. 

Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral  :  for  anon, 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth. 

And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 


2^  END  YMION. 


That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ; — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journevinof  hijrh. 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd  ; 

Such  as  aye  muster  where  gray  time  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side  : 

There  hollow  sounds  aroused  me,  and  I  sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 

I  was  distracted  ;  madly  did  1  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :  but  'twas  to  live, 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks  ;  to  count,  and  count 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 

And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 

Ah,  desperate  mortal !  I  even  dared  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Into  a  warmer  air  :  a  moment  more. 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 

Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 

A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 

Loiter'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells. 

Made  delicate  from  ill  white-flower  bells  ; 

And  once,  above  ^he  edges  of  our  nest, 

An^arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  i  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'er-power'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  .^     Why  not  see, 
Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 


EN-DYMION.  29 


And  stare  them  from  me  ?     But  no,  like  a  spark 

That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 

Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 

Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep.  • 

And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 

A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 

And  up  I  started  :   Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears, 

My  clenched  hands  ; — for  lo  !  the  poppies  hung 

Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 

A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 

Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 

With  leaden  looks  :  the  solitary  breeze 

Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 

With  wayward  melancholy  ;  and  I  thought, 

Mark  me,  Peona !  that  sometimes  it  brouo-ht 

Faint  fare-thee  wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus! — 

Away  I  wander'd — all  the  pleasant  hues 

Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 

Were  deepest  dungeons  ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 

Were  full  of  pestilent  light  ;  our  taintless  rills 

Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'erspread  with  upturn'd  gills 

Of  dying  fish ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 

In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  outgrown 

Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 

Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 

In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 

My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice: 

Therefore  I  eager  follow'd,  and  did  curse 

The  disappointment.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 

Rock'd  me  to  patience.     Now.  thank  gentle  heaven ! 


30  ENDYMIOA-. 


These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 
To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life." 

Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  was  very  loth 
To  answer  ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps, 
And  wonders  ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame 
To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say,  Shaine 
On  this  poor  weakness  !  but,  for  all  her  strife, 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 
From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the  pause. 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  *'  Is  this  the  cause  } 
This  all  ?     Yet  it  is  strange  and  sad,  alas  ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood,- 
Singing  alone,  and  fearfully, — how  the  blood 
Left  his  young  cheek ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 
He  knew  not  where :  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 
If  any  said  'twas  love :  and  yet  'twas  love  ; 
What  could  it  be  but  love  ?     How  a  ring-dove 
Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path 
And  how  he  died  :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe 
The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses  ; 
And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
With  sighs,  and  an  alas  ! — Endymion  ! 


endymion:  31 


Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth — anoii 

Among  the  winds  at  large — that  all  may  hearken ! 

Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken, 

I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes 

Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands, 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst, — would  I  so  tease 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions?     The  Morphean  fount 

Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle. 

So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle. 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality  :  how  light  [slight 

Must  dreams  themselves  be  ;    seeing   they're  more 

Than  the  mere  nothing -that  engenders  them  ! 

Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem  ' 

Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 

Why  pierce  high-fronted  honor  to  the  quick 

For  nothing  but  a  dream  ?  "     Hereat  the  youth 

Look'd  up  :  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 

Was  in  his  plaited  brow :  yet  his  eyelids 

Widen'd  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 

A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 

Of  careless  butterflies  :  amid  his  pains  •* 

He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 

Full  palatable  ;  and  a  color  grew 

Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifefui  spake. 


32  ENDYMION. 


"  Peona  !  ever  have  I  loiig'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises  :  nothing  base, 
No  nicrely  slumberous  p'Kuitasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter'd  ;  leaving  my  bark  bared 
And  sullenly  drifting  :  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  ?     In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  essence  ;  till  we  shine, 
Full  alchemized,  and  free  of  space.     Behold 
The  clear  religion  of  heaven  !     Fold 
A  rose-leaf  round  thy  finger's  taperness, 
And  soothe  thy  lips  :  hist !  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
^olian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs :  ^, 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  enclouded  tombs  ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ; 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophesyings  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  foot  \ 
Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit 
Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was  ; 
And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 
In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 
Feel  we  these  things  ! — that  moment  have  we  stept 
Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees, 
To  the  chief  intensity  :  the  crown  of  these 


END  YMION.  33 


Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 
Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 
All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 
Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 
A  steady  splendor  ;  but  at  the  tip-top, 
There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  aa  orbed  drop 
Of  light,  and  that  is  love :  its  influence 
Thrown  in  our  eyes  genders  a  novel  sense, 
At  which  we  start  and  fret :  till  in  the  end. 
Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend, 
Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it, — 
Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 
So  wingedly  :  when  we  combine  therewith 
Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith, 
X  And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 
*  Ay,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food. 
That  men  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the  van 
Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 
And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 
All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 
Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry. 
Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die, 
Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  Elysium. 
And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 
Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness . 
For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 
The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly  ; 
As  does  the  nightingale,  up-perched  high, 
And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves — 
She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives. 
How  tiptoe  Might  holds  back  her  dark  gray  hood. 

3 


3'^  ENDYMION. 


Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 
The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath, 
Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth  : 
What  I  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 
That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruit  would 

swell 
To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail, 
The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood  and  vale, 
The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones. 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet, 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet  ? 

"  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal  ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content ;  what  merest  whim, 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavor  after  fame. 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  steadfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd  ;  for  these  things  are  true. 
And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain  flies, 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure. 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury. 
Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 
A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
My  sayings  will  the  less  obscure  seem 
When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking  sight 
Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 
Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Harken,  sweet  Peona ! 


END  YMrON.  35 


Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 

Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs, 

Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 

Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 

And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught. 

And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 

Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side. 

Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell, 

Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well. 

Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 

Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 

Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 

Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 

Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits : 

'Twas  there  1  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 

In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat, 

W^hen  all  above  was  faint  with  mid-day  heat. 

And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 

I'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed  ; 

So  reaching  back  to  boyhood:  make  me  ships 

Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips, 

With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 

Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily, 

When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 

I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 

Of  o'cr-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  througli. 

Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 

A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver ; 

So  plainly  character'd  no  breeze  would  shiver 

The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 

To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain. 

And,  therefore,  was  just  going  ;  when,  behold! 


36  ENDYMION. 

A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told — 

The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep, 

Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 

Through  the  cool  depth. — It  moved  as  if  to  flee — 

I  started  up,  when  lo  !  refreshfully, 

There  came  upon  my  face,  in  plenteous  showers. 

Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers. 

Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd  sight, 

Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 

Ay,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 

Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 

Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 

Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant ;  but  pain 

Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 

On  the  deer's  tender  haunches  :  late,  and  loth, 

'Tis  scared  away  by  slow  returning  pleasure. 

How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 

Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite. 

By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumberous  night ! 

Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 

Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy  hill : 

And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 

Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 

Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 

Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen  % 

Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 

When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife 

With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  left  the  skies 

Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moisten'd  eyes 

In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds. 

That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 

My  hunting  cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smiled, 


ENDYMION.  37 


Chattered  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 
All  torment  from  my  breast ; — 'twas  even  then, 
Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  den 
Of  helpless  discontent, — hurling  my  lance 
From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance, 
At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck, 
And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 
In  the  middle  of  a  brook, — whose  silver  ramble 
Down  twenty  little  falls  through  reeds  and  bramble, 
Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave. 
Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 
The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock, — 
'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to  mock 
Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 
Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 
Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's  home. 
*  A  !  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  ! ' 
Said  I,  low-voiced  :  '  Ah,  whither  !  'Tis  the  grot 
Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot. 
Doth  her  resign  :  and  where  her  tender  hands 
She  dabbles  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands  ; 
Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits, 
And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 
Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and'anon, 
Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 
Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my  vows. 
And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 
To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 
Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed. 
And  weave  them  dyingly — send  honey-whispers 
Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 
May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying ! 


3^  END  YM ION. 


O  charitable  Echo  !  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her  ! — tell  her' — So  I  stay'd 

My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid. 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly, 

And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 

Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 

Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came : 

*  Endymion  !  the  cave  is  secreter 

Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 

No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 

And  trembles  through  my  labvrinthine  hair.' 

At  that  opprcss'd,  I  hurried  in. — Ah !  where 

Are  those  swift  moments  !    Whither  are  they  fled? 

I'll  smile  no  more,  Peona  ;  nor  will  wed 

Sorrow,  the  way  to  death  ;  .but  patiently 

Bear  up  against  it :  so  farewell,  sad  sigh  ; 

And  come  instead  demurest  meditation, 

To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 

No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link. 

My  chain  of  grief  :  no  longer  strive  to  find 

A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 

Blustering  about  my'ears  :  ay,  thou  shalt  see, 

Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be  ; 

What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 

There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 

Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis  nought—- 

And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught. 

Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  } 

By  this  the  sun  is  setting  ;  we  may  chance 

Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 


ENDYMION.  39 


This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a  star 
Though  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  hand : 
They  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK    II. 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love !  O  grief  !  O  balm  \ 

All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 

And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years : 

For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 

Have  become  indolent ;  but  touching  thine, 

One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 

One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  biiried  days.      - 

The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their  blaze, 

Stiff-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades. 

Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  fades 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 

Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 

The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 

Hence,  pageant  history  !  hence,  gilded  cheat ! 

Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds ! 

Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  i 

Many  old  rotten-timber'd  boats  there  be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels ;  many  a  sail  of  pride, 

And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 

But  wherefore  this  ?     What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast  ? 

What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 


40  END  VMIOAT. 

The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  ? — Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 
Doth  more  avail  than  these  :  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head, 
Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread. 
Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 
The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest, 
In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  dreav 
Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 
Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  sonof. 
So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along, 
Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd  prince  I 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice  ?     Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows  .'' 
Alas  !  'tis  his  old  grief.     For  many  days. 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways  : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks  ; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes 
Of  the  lone  wood-cutter  ;  and  listening  still, 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lush-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 


ENDYMION.  41 


Stems  the  upbursting  cold :  a  wild  rose-tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy  :  lo !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water  :  how! 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight; 
And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 
A  golden  butterfly  ;  upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things, 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad^Endymion's  clasped  hands  : 
Onward  it  flies.     From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was  ; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun. 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dun, 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer  time  away.     One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him ;  then,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen, 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men, 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.     Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide, 
Until  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain's  side 
That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  forever  pour'd 


42  ENDYMION. 


Unto  the  temperate  air  ;  then  high  it  soar'd, 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip, 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head  :  so  it  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch 
Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 
So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !     Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain  ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue, 
What  whisperer  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest } 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist, 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  saying  :  "  Youth  1 
Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starved  on  the  ruth, 
The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed, 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 
Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  offer 
All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphitrite  ;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden,  or  rainbow  sided,  or  purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze ; 
Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble  floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin-light  to  the  deep ;  my  grotto-sands, 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far  lands 
By  my  diligent  springs  :  my  level  lilies,  shells, 
My  charm  in  f]^-rod,  my  potent  river  spells  ; 
Yes,  everything,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 


END  YMION.  43 


Meander  gave  me, — for  I  bubbled  up 

To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 

But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child 

To  gladden  thee ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say, 

Is,  that  I  pity  thee  ;  that  on  this  day 

I've  been  thy  guide  ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 

To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 

From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain. 

Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 

Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above : 

But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farewell ! 

I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 

Hereat  she  vanish'd  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze  : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 
Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool. 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still. 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer, 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down  ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
Glow-worms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps, 
Thus  breathed  he  to  himself  :  "  Whoso  encamps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  'tis  his. 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 
The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile ! 
Yet,  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil : 
Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 


44  ENDYMTON. 


Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-bead  of  doubt 

That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs  : 

Alas  !    he  finds  them  dry  ;  and  then  he  foams. 

And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 

But  this  is  human  life  :  the  war,  the  deeds. 

The  disappointment,  the  anxiety, 

Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh, 

All  human  ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good 

That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  fooa, 

To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 

How  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is  men  grow 

Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me. 

There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in  :  I  can  see 

Nought  earthly  worth  my  compassing ;  so  stand 

Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land — 

Alone  }     No,  no  ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute, 

When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to't, 

I'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 

With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek. 

But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love, 

Than  be — I  care  not  what.     O  meekest  dove 

Of  heaven  !     O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright  and  fair 

From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air. 

Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 

Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 

And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared ! 

Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen ;  one  torment  spared. 

Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery. 

Worse  than  the  torment's  self  :  but  rather  tie 

Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 

My  love's  far  dwelling.     Though  the  playful  rout 

Of  Cupids  :>hun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 


ENDYMION.  45 


Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream, 
O  be  propitious,  nor  severely,  deem 
My  madness  impious  ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 
That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst — that  I 
Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky  ! 
How  beautiful  thou  art !     The  world  how  deep  ! 
How  tremulous-dazzlingly  the  wheels  sweep 
Around  their  axle  !     Then  these  gleaming  reins, 
How  lithe  !     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 
Those  twilight  eyes  ?     Those  eyes  ! — my  spirit  fails ; 
Dear  goddess,  help  !  or  the  wide  gaping  air 
Will  gulf  me— help  !  " — At  this,  with  madden'd  stare. 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he  stood  ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood. 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone ; 
Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had  more  been  heard.     Thus   swell'd  it  forth  :   "  De- 
scend, 
Young  mountaineer  !  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  -hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble  being  :  now,  as  deep  profound 
As  those  are  high,  descend  !     He  ne'er  is  crown'd 


4^  ENDYMIO^r. 

With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 

Where  airy  voices  lead  :  so  through  the  hollow 

The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend !  " 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection  :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness, 

'Twas  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light. 
The  region  ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Ay,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold. 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told^ 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular  : 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star, 
Through  a  vast  antre  ;  then  the  metal  woof, 
Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss. 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief  ;  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
Vexing  conceptions  of  s.'^me  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 
Now  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean  cliff,  and  whence  he  seeth 


ENDYMION.  47 


A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 

But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  nuncb 

His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away,  - 

Described  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 

Old  Darkness  from  his  throne  :  'twas  like  the  sun 

Uprisen  o'er  chaos  :  and  with  such  a  stun 

Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 

He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders — past  the  wit 

Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 

Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close. 

Will  be  its  high  remembrancers  :  who  they  ? 

The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 

For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonishment 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 

A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 

In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well-nigh  fear'd 

To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  far  off  appear'd, 

Through  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fair  shrine, 

And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 

A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully. 

The  youth  approach'd  ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd  eye 

Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old : 

And,  when  more  near  against  the  marble  cold 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead. 

Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  murmur'd  faint; 

And  long  he  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe; 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 


48  El^D  YMIOJV. 


There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  float  before, 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self ! 

A  mad  pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf, 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-brier. 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 
The  goal  of  consciousness  ?     Ah,  'tis  the  thought. 
The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for  lo  ! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  checker,  nor,  up-piled. 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west, 
Like  herded  elephants  ;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous  air ; 
But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief,  away, 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay, 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear  ? 
"  No  !  "  exclaimed  he,  "  why  should  I  tarry  here  ?** 
No  !  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 
His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief ; 
Warming  and  growing  strong  in  the  belief 
Of  help  from  Dian  ;  so  that  when  again 
He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain, 
Moving  more  near  the  while  :  "  O  Haunter  chaste 
Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste. 
Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  keen 


END  YM 1 017.  49 


Art  thou  now  forested  ?     O  woodland  Queen, 

What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  woos  ? 

Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 

Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?     Through  what  dark  tree 

Glimmers  thy  crescent  ?     Wheresoe'er  it  be, 

'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven :  thou  dost  taste 

Freedom  as  none  can  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements; 

But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents, 

There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 

It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me. 

An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name  ! 

Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking  flame — 

O  let  me  cool  it  zephyr-boughs  among  ! 

A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — 

O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs  1 

Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 

O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note 

Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 

O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 

Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 

O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice ! 

Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ? 

O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice  ! 

If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 

O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers ! 

Young  goddess  !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers  ! 

Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep  ! " 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again, 


50        '  ENDYMION. 


Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 

And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face, 

Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 

But  'twas  not  long  ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 

To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide 

To  margin  sallows,  where  the  leaves  he  spied, 

And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 

Up  heaping  through  the  slab  :  refreshment  drowns 

Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide — 

Nor  in  one  spot  alone  ;  the  floral  pride 

In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 

Before  his  footsteps  ;  as  when  heaved  anew 

Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthen'd  wave  to  the  shore, 

Down  whose  green  back  the  short-lived  foam,  all  hoar, 

Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes  ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hand  among  the  sweets ; 
Onward  he  goes — he  stops — his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm. 
This  sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk  tiptoe : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles  ; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

/     O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man. 
Who  loved — and  music  slew  not  ?    'Tis  the  pest 


END  YM ION'.  51 


Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest ; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  flame :  it  doth  immerse 
And- suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse. 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 
Is  miserable.     'Tvvas  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian's  ear; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone^ 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  hefad 
Brushing,  awaken'd  :  then  tlie  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood, 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  went 
Through  winding  alleys  ;  and  lo,  wonderment ! 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a- slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone. 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-wall'd,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy, 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty  ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth. 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach: 


52  END  YM ION. 


And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Officiously.     Sidevvay  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head. 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honors  wed 
To  make  a  coronal  ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  interwined  and  trammelled  fresh : 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh. 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries  ;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine  ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush ; 
And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily  ; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by, 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings  ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber  ;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew. 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair  ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 


ENDYMION.  S3 


At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more, 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Until  impatient  in  embarrassment, 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  feather'd  lyrist,  who  straightway, 
Smiling,  thus  whispered  :  "  Though  from  upper  day 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer ! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honor,  ^ 

When  some  ethereal  and  high-favoring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 
Alive  with  sparkles — never,  I  aver. 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 
So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears, 
Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 
Were  high  about  Pomona  :  here  is  cream. 
Deepening  to  richness  from,  a  snowy  gleam; 
Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 
For  the  boy  Jupiter  :  and  here,  undimm'd 
By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 
Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums  : 
And  here  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 
In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 
Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 
Of  all  these  things  around  us."     He  did  so, 
Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre  ; 
And  thus  :  "  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 
By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 
For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 


54  ENDYMION. 


Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self. 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  ?  but,  fond  elf 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

F'aint  through  his  careless  arms  ;  content  to  see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  fooj  !  to  make  a  cold  retreat, 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

Lay  sorrowing  ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion  ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 

Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small 

Hush  !  no  exclaim — yet,  justly  might'st  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head. — I  was  half  glad. 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad, 

When  the  boar  tusk'd  him  :  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard  ; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 

Each  summer-time  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he. 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep. 

Ay,  sleep ;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 

Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lengthen'd  drowsiness : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 

Qs  young  immortals,  without  any  let. 

To  watch  his  slumber  through.     'Tis  wellnigh  pass'd, 

Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 

The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 


ENDYMIOiX.  55 


Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 

Look,  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 

Stand  anxious  :  see  !  behold  !  " — This  clamant  word 

Broke  through  the  careful  silence  ;  for  they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 

Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  mutter'd, 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 

Lay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradually 

Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a  hum 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come ! 

Arise  !  awake  !  Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 

Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch  : 

Rise,  Cupids  !  or  we'll  give  the  blue-bell  pinch 

To  your  dimpled  arms.     Once  more  sweet  life  be- 

\  gin  ! " 
At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  m, 
Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 
And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 
In  backward  yawns.     But  all  were  soon  alive  : 
For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 
In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  fair, 
So  from  the  arbor  roof  down  swelled  an  air 
Odorous  and  enlivening ;  making  all 
To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 
For  their  sweet  queen  ;  when  lo  !  the  wreathed  green 
Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 
Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne, 
Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  morn, 
Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew, — which  falling  chill 
On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 
Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about 


5^  ENDYMION. 


Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks  stretch'd 

out, 
And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent  ; 
And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishment, 
Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open-arm'd  : 
Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charm'd 
A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 
Into  his  eyes.     Ah,  miserable  strife. 
But  for  her  comforting  !  unhappy  sight, 
But  meeting  her  blue  orbs  !     Who,  who  can  write 
Of  these  first  minutes?     The  unchariest  muse 
To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there. 
Saving  love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness  :  awfully  he  stands  ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands  ; 
No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  his  bow ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it ;  from  forth  his  eyes 
There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes : 
A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  hquid  through  their  souls. 
Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him  ;  so,  bent  low, 
He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said  :  "  My  child, 
Favor  this  gentle  youth  ;  his  days  are  wild 
With  love — he — but  alas  !  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 
Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son :  I  tell  thee  true. 


ENDYMION.  57 


That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 

The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon', 

This  stranger  aye  I  pitied.     For  upon 

A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 

Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 

For  this  my  love  :  for  vexing  Mars  had  teased 

Me  even  to  tears :  thence,  when  a  little  eased, 

Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood, 

I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood  : 

Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind  ; 

Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 

Over  his  sullen  eyes  :  I  saw  him  throw 

Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 

Death  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  he  moved, 

Yet  mutter'd  wildly.     I  could  hear  he  loved 

Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 

Had  zoned  her  though  the  night.     There  is  no  trace 

Of  this  in  heaven :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek, 

And  find  it  is  the  vaniest  thing  to  seek  ; 

And  that  of  all  things  'tis  kept  secretest. 

Endymion  !  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest : 

So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 

Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 

'Tis  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme ; 

And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 

Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.     Now  adieu  ! 

Here  must  we  leave  thee." — At  these  words  up  flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  car, 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     High  afar, 

The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  nought ; 

And,  when  all  were  clear  vanished,  still  he  caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow 


5S  END  YM ION. 


When  all  was  darken'd,  with  ^tnean  throe 
The  earth  closed — gave  a  solitary  moan — 
And  left  him  once  a«:ain  in  twilig-ht  lone. 


*^&' 


He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 
And  he  in  loneliness  :  he  felt  assured 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise, 
Black  polish'd  porticoes  of  awful  shade. 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence, 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loop-holes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar, 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear  ;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alike,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound. 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space, 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines  ;  then  weeping  trees, 


END  Y MI  OAT.  59 


Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind, 
AVhich,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair, 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.     He  bade  a  loath  farewell 
To  these  founts  Protean,  passing  gulf,  and  dell, 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 
Half  seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  grisly  gapes, 
Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 
A  vaulted  dome  like  heaven's  far  bespread 
With  starlight  gems  :  ay,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 
The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  change 
Working  within  him  into  something  dreary, — 
Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost  and  weary, 
And  purblind  amid  foggy  midnight  wolds. 
But  he  revives  at  once  :  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental  slough  ? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below. 
Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone — alone — 
In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale. 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 


bo  END  YM ION. 


This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

Wherefore  delay, 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?     And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air  ?     Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently  !     He  was  indeed  wayworn  ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost ; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  wings^ 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings, 
Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  s:loom  : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom, 
Swift  as  a  fathoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things  ;  till  exhaled  asphodel. 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreathed, 
Came  swelling  forth' where  little  caves  were  wreathed 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem"d 
Large  honeycombs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem"d 
With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown 
With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure  ;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable  ;  his  tread 
W^as  Hesperean ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres ; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes ; 


EXDYMION.  6 1 


The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 

And  stirr'd  them  faintly.     Verdant  cave  and  cell 

He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 

Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "  Alas  !  " 

Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 

Away  in  solitude  ?     And  must  they  wane, 

Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain, 

Without  an  echo  ?     Then  shall  I  be  left 

So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft ! 

Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !     O  my  love, 

My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?     High  above. 

Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven  ? 

Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven. 

Old  Atlas'  children  ?     Art  a  maid  of  the  waters, 

One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters  ? 

Or  art,  impossible  !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 

Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 

For  very  idleness  ?     Where'er  thou  art, 

Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 

Into  thine  arms  ;  to  scare*  Aurora's  train, 

And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning  ;  o'er  the  main 

To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 

From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle ;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  'mid  fresh  leaves. 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self :  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements  :  hither  sleep  awhile! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep  !  and  soothing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 

Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 


02  ENDYMION. 


With  power  to  dream  deliciously  ;  so  wound 

Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 

The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 

He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 

Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss  ! 

A  naked  waist  :  "  Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this  ? 

A  well-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  1 1 " 

At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 

They  trembled  to  each  other — Helicon  ! 

O  fountain'd  hill !     Old  Homer's  Helicon! 

That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 

These  sorry  pages  ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 

And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 

Over  his  nested  young  :  but  all  is  dark 

Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 

Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.     Ay,  the  count 

Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up  ;  the  scroll 

Is  folded  by  the  Muses  ;  the  bright  roll 

Is  in  Apollo's  hand  :  our  dazed  eyes 

Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies  : 

The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet, 

Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set. 

These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 

That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 

A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 

Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 

Question  that  thus  it  was  ;  long  time  they  lay 

Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away  ; 

Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 

To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 

Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lipg. 

"  O  known  Unknown  !  from  whom  my  being  sips 


JIND  YMION.  63 


Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 

Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 

Pillow  my  chin  forever  ?  ever  press 

These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  ? 

Why  not  forever  and  forever  feel 

That  breath  about  my  eyes  !     Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed — 

Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 

My  lonely  madness.     Speak,  my  kindest  fair ! 

Is — is  it  to  be  so  ?     No  !     Who  will  dare 

To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?     And,  of  thine  own  will, 

Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.     Still 

Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer — now 

How  can  we  part  t     Elysium !     Who  art  thou  ? 

Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  forever  here, 

Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere  ? 

Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace. 

By  the  most  soft  complexion  of  thy  face, 

Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses  !  twinkling  eyes 

And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties — 

These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine. 

The  passion  " "  O  loved  Ida  the  divine  I 

Endymion  !  dearest !     Ah,  unhappy  me  ! 

His  soul  will  'scape  us — O  felicity ! 

How  he  does  love  me !     His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love — how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet* 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die ; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dulness  ;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  this  lethargy  !  I  cannot  quell   . 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 


64  END  YM/OAT. 


Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 

What !  dost  thou  move  ?  dost  kiss  ?  O  bliss  !  O  pain ! 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  must  I  hence 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee  ;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee.     Ah,  dearest !  do  not  groan, 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy, 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already  !  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles, 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height, 

And  from  all  serious  Gods  ;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone  ! 

And  wherefore  so  ashamed  }     'Tis  but  to  atone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes  : 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward  !     Horror  rushes 

Too  palpable  before  me — the  sad  look 

Of  Jove — Minerva's  start — no  bosom  shook 

With  awe  of  purity — no  Cupid  pinion 

In  reverence  veil'd — my  crystalline  dominion 

Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity  ! 

But  what  is  this  to  love  ?     Oh  !  I  could  fly 

With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers. 

So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours 

Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at  once 

That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce — 

Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown — 

Oh  !  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity  !  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 

While  every  eye  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 


END  ^mion:  65 


With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.     Sweet  love  ! 

I  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove, 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a  soft  kiss — 

Ay,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss, 

An  immortality  of  passion's  thine 

Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial  ;  and  we  will  shade 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade  ; 

And  I  will  tell  the  stories  of  the  sky, 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy 

My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds  ! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee !  let  the  sounds 

Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly !  O  dearth 

Of  human  words !  roughness  of  mortal  speech  ! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometimes  teach 

Thine  honey'd  tongue — lute-breathings  which  I  gasp 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness — I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion  :  woe  !  woe !  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  ?  " — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  langor.     He  return'd 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

Ye  who  have  yearn  d 
With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  'twas  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ; 
And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 


66  END  YM JON. 


A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 

To  Phoebus'  shrine;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 

His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 

And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 

He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 

Giving  it  universal  freedom.     There 

Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 

Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend  cheers 

Yon  sentinel  stars  ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 

Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 

For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart, 

Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 

Should  be  engulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 

As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 

A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain ; 

Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane — 

And  'tis  but  echoed  from  departing  sound. 

That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 

Her  gentle  Hmbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep.— 

Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers. — 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear :  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head, 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.     Love's  madness  he  had  known  : 
Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Moanings  had  burst  from  him  ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away  :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 


ENDYMION.  C? 


No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars  : 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  iEolian  tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With  melancholy  thought :  O  he  had  swoon'd 
Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipple  !  and  his  love 
Henceforth  was  dove-like. — Loth  was  he  to  move 
From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 
'Twas  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 
In  muffling  hands.     So  temper' d,  out  he  stray'd 
Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay'd 
Alecto's  serpents  ;  ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes  :  and  at  the  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
O'erstudded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls, 
And  crimson-mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 
Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 
In  which  whales  harbor  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 
Against  an  endless  storm.     Moreover  too, 
Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 
Ready  to  snort  their  streams.     In  this  cool  wonder 
Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 
On  all  his  life  :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 
When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 
He  stepp'd  upon  his  shepherd  throne  :  the  lock 
Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook, 
And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there : 
Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair. 
With  every  friend  and  fellow-woodlander — 
Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.     Then  the  spur 
Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds  :  his  plans 
To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans : 


68  ENDYMION. 


That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival  t 
His  sister's  sorrow  ;  and  his  wanderings  all, 
Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd : 
Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd 
High  with  excessive  love.     "  And  now,"  thought 
**  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 
Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 
Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core, 
All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences, 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 
Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root, 
And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  :  other  light, 
Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight 
The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark. 
Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark  ! 
My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shells ; 
Or  they  are  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 
Of  noises  far  away  .'' — list !  " — Hereupon 
He  kept  an  anxious  ear.     The  humming  tone 
Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay. 
On  either  side  outgush'd,  with  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring;  and  both  together  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and  lash'd 
Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  grot. 
Leaving  a  trickling  dew.     At  last  they  shot 
Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  a  noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whos.e  hopes  poise 
Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 
Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 
Endymion  follow'd — for  it  seem'd  that  one 
Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun — 


ENDYMIOi^.  6n 


Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  wellnigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery, — 
And  was  now  wrapt  in  tender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah  !  what  is  it  sings 
His  dream  away  ?     What  melodies  are  these  ? 
They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees, 
Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give  ear  ' 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph  !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine.-*     Great  Dian,  why, 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?     O  tiiat  i 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now, 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !    then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun^ 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 
In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptured  ! — See  how  painfully  I  flow : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe 
Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead, 
A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snared  me." — "  Cruel  god. 
Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains  : — tease  me  not 
With  syren  words — Ah,  have  I  really  got 
Such  power  to  madden  thee  .^     And  is  it  true — - 
Away,  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 
My  very  thoughts  :  in  mercy  then  away, 
Kindest  Alpheus,  for  should  I  obey 


70  ENDYMION. 


My  own  dear  will,  'twould  be  a  deadly  bane." — 

"  O,  Oread-Queen  !  would  that  thou  hadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal." — "  Alas,  I  burn, 

I  shudder — gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 

Alpheus  !   thou  enchanter!   every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods, 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave  ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me :  wherefore  serve  me  so, 

And  call  it  love  1     Alas  !  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away  !  avaunt ! 

0  'twas  a  cruel  thing." — "  Now  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink, 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent  maid ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more ; — nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 

Will  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  hear :  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them  ! — fear  no  more, 

Sweet  Arethusa  !  Dian's  self  must  feel, 

Sometimes,  these  very  pangs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 

These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course. 
From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 
About  Arcadian  forests  ;  and  will  show 
The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 


END  YM  ION.  yi 


Through  mossy  rocks  ;  where  'mid  exuberant  green, 

I  roam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  exile  ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees  [please 

Buzz  from   their  honey'd  wings  :  and  thou   shouldst 

Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 

Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 

Doff  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness, 

And  let  us  be  thus  comforted  ;  unless 

Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 

Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam, 

And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands." — 

"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Dian  stands 

Severe  before  me  :  persecuting  fate  ! 

Unhappy  Arethusa  !  thou  wast  late 

A  huntress  free  in — "     At  this,  sudden  fell 

Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 

The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more 

Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 

The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 

Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said  :  "  I  urge 

Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage, 

By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage, 

If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains ; 

And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 

He  turn'd — there  was  a  whelming  sound — he  stept; 
There  was  a  cooler  light :  and  so  he  kept 
Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo  ! 
More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earth  vvere  gone  and  fled — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


72  END  YMION. 


BOOK    III. 

There  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 

With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 

Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 

The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 

From  human  pastures  ;  or,  O  torturing  fact ! 

Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 

Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 

Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     With  not  one  tinge 

Of  sanctuary  splendor,  not  a  sight 

Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 

By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests, 

And  crowns  and  turbans.     With  unladen  breasts, 

Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 

To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account, 

Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones — 

Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 

Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabor'd  drums, 

And  sudden  cannon.     Ah  !  how  all  this  hums, 

In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 

Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 

And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 

Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 

No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 

But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spelL 


END  YM ION'.  73 


Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfined, 

Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 

And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 

To  watch  the  ^bysm-birth  of  elements. 

Ay.  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 

A  thousand  Powers  keep  religious  state, 

In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne; 

And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn, 

Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 

Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few! 

Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe — 

Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 

Our  piece  of  heaven — whose  benevolence 

Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres  ;  every  sense 

Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude. 

As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And  by  the  feud 

'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 

Eterne  Apollo  !  that  thy  Sister  fair 

Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 

When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west 

She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 

And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 

As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 

Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart; 

As  if  the  minist'ring  stars  kept  not  apart, 

Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages 

O  Moon  I  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in : 

O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 

The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 

Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 


74  ENDYMION. 


Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 
CoLich'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine ; 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise. 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house  ; — the  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — the  myriad  sea ! 
O  Moon !  far  spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee. 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

Cynthia  !  where  art  thou  now  ?     What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?     Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale  :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears  who  weeps  for   thee  !     Where  dost  thou 

sigh  ? 
Ah  !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye, 
Or,  what  a  thing  is  love  !     'Tis  She,  but  lo  ! 
How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe  ! 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue :  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees, 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle  !  for  down  glancing  thence, 


END  YMION.  75 


She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 

O'erwhelming  water-courses;  scaring  out 

The  thorn}^  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ning 

Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustom'd  lightning. 

Where  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 

O  love  !    how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 

Strange  journeyings  !     Wherever  beauty  dwells, 

In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 

In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun, 

Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  'tis  won. 

Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest  Leander  breath  ; 

Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death ; 

Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element : 

And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain !  thou  hast  sent 

A  moonbeam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world, 

To  find  Endymion 

On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white. 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her  light 
Agaipst  his  pallid  face  !  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood  :  'twas  very  sweet ;  he  stay'd 
His  wanderings  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds, 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads 
Lash'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows  : — when  like  taper-flame 


76  END  YMION. 


Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 
Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd. 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings  : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breastplates  large 
Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls. 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  hy  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox  ; — then  skeletons  of  man. 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan. 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw   - 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him  ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heaviness. 
He  might  have  died  :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel. 
He  onward  kept  ;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 

"  What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon  !  that  thou  shouldst 
mo 
My  heart  so  potently  .<*     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 


ENDYMION.  1*1 


Thou  seem'dst  my  sister  :  hand  in  hand  we  went 

From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 

No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 

Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously : 

No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance, 

But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance : 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 

Until  thou  lifted'st  up  thine  eyelids  fine : 

In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 

Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 

And,  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming, 

No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 

And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 

No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 

If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 

Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 

By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end  ; 

And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 

With  all  my  ardors  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 

Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 

The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun  ; 

Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won  ; 

Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed— 

My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed  : — 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon  ! 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality  :  I  prest 

Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 

But  gentle  Orb  !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss — 

My  strange  love  came — Felicity's  abyss ! 


78  END  YM ION. 


She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade  away — 

Yet  not  entirely  ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 

Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 

Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power 

Is  coming  fresh  upon  me  :  O  be  kind ! 

Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 

My  sovereign  vision. — Dearest  love,  forgive 

That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live  !— 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries ! 

How  far  beyond  !  "     At  this  a  surprised  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart  ; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair. 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 

Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 

And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet, 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic  :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness  ;  storm, 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 

Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof  ;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape. 

The  gulphing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell. 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self  ;  and  the  minutest  fish 

Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish, 

And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 


ENDYMION.  79 


Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea-nymphs  round  his  stale, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand, 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  steadfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken. 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  raised  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger — seeming  not  to  see. 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 
Pie  woke  as  from  a  trance  ;  his  snow-white  brows 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  ploughs 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large, 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage, 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
Eased  in  one  accent  his  o'erburden'd  soul, 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose  :  he  grasp'd  his  stole. 
With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad, 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said  :-— 

"  Thou  art  the  man  !     Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young! 
O  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !     What  shall  I  do  }     Where  go. 


8o  END  YAT/OiV. 


When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe  ? — 

I'll  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 

Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten  ; 

Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I'll  be, 

That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily: 

To  northern  seas  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail, 

And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 

To  some  black  cloud ;  thence  down  I'll  madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep. 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 

With  rapture  to  the  other  side  of  the  world ! 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness  !     Sisters  three, 

I  bow  full-hearted  to  your  old  decree  ! 

Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign. 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man  !  "     Endymion  started  back 

Dismay'd  ;  and  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Muttered  :     "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region  ?     Will  he  let  me  freeze, 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ? 

Or  wil!  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand, 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 

Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw. 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame, 

A.m  I  to  be  burn'd  up  ?     No,  I  will  shout, 

Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out ! — 

O  Tartarus  ?  but  some  few  days  agone 

Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 

Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves  • 


END  YM ION.  8 1 


Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and — ah,  ripe  sheaves 
Of  happiness  !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop. 
But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,   and  kiss  death's  foot.      Love  !  love,  fare- 
well ! 
Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?     This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath. — By  Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 
I  see  thy  streaming  hair !  and  now,  by  Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man ! " 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo  !  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  gray-hair'd  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow  kept  ? 
Had  he,  though  blindly  cotiimelous,  brought 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought, 
Convulsions  to  a  mouth  of  many  years  } 
He  had  in  truth  ;  and  he  was  ripe  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faltering  spake : 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phoebus'  sake ! 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own  :  for  why  t  thou  openest 
The  prison -gates  that  have  so  long  oppress'd 
My  weary  watching.     Though  thou  know'st  it  not 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  this  fatal  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ! 

6 


82  ENDYMION. 

I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore : 

Ay,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown  power, 

I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 

But  even  now,  most  miserable  old, 

I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 

Gave  mighty  pulses  :  in  this  tottering  case 

Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 

As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid. 

For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd, 

Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side : 
Resuming  quickly  thus  ;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd  sands 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

'•  My  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main. 
And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay  ; 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day, — . 
The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 
But  hollow  rocks, — and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease  : 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Ay,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  ! — Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 


EN'D  YMICh^  83 


A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 

To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime 

From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep, 

And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep? 

Yes :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 

My  long  captivity  and  moanings  all 

Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum, 

The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 

Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

"  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures : 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars, 
And  craggy  isles,  seamew's  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates  ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green, 
Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft. 
When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 
My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate. 
Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 
Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf'd  it  down, 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude  : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude. 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 
And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice  ! 
There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would  steer 
i.Ty  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep, 


84  ENDYMION. 


Mingled  with  ceaseless  beatings  of  his  sheep; 

And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 

But  I  beheld  its  bii^th  upon  the  brine  : 

For  I  would  watch  ail  night  to  see  unfold 

Heaven's  gates,  and  ^Ethon  snort  his  morning  gold 

Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams :  and  constantly 

At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea, 

My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 

The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 

With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate : 

They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 

Would  btrew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  1     Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thge,  O  Latmian ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death  !     Fool !  I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction  :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  eie  in  one  extremest  fit 
I  plunged  fc»*  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  -with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain  ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admireih'ow  crystal-smooth  it  felt. 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledged  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 


ENDYMION.  85 


*Twas  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 

The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 

No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 

That  thou  hast  been  a  witness — it  must  be 

For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth, 

By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 

So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 

To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas  ! 

That  love  should  be  my  bane  !  Ah,  Scylla  fair! 

Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever — ever  dare 

To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?     Kind  stranger-youth ! 

I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth, 

And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing ! 

She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 

Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory, 

From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 

Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 

The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 

Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear : 

Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear ; 

And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 

It  fiash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 

Cruel  enchantress!     So  above  the  water 

I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phoebus'  daughter, 

iEaea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  : — 

It  secm'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swo'  i 

Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees, 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter  !  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 


^6  ENDYMION. 


And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased — I  caught  light  footsteps;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Starry  Jove  ! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  '  Ah  !  art  awake  ? 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake  ! 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy  !     Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 

Until  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 

So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 

Here,  that  I  too  may  live :  but  if  beyond 

Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 

Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme  ; 

If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-dream  ; 

If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardor  mute, 

Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

O  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee  !  *     Thus  she  link'd 

Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 

Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul; 

And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 

So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 

This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos  !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  may'st  not 
Exclaim,  Hov/,  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 


ENDYMION'.  87 


"  Who  could  resist  ?     Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia  ;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time, 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd, 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemm'd, 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 
I  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal :  nor  would  thence 
Have  moved,  even  though  Amphion's  harp  had  woo'd 
Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 
For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 
A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies  ; 
So  every  eve,  nay,  every  spendthrift  hour 
Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 
And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrasreous  : 
Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 
Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer, 
And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 
Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow — 
To  me  new-born  delights  ! 

"  Now  let  me  borrow, 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 
These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

.  "  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping  :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts ; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 
Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore. 


88  END  YM TOM. 


That  out  I  ran  and  searched  the  forest  o'er. 

Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 

Damp  awe  assail'd  me,  for  there  'gan  to  boom 

A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound, 

Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 

Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rumbled 

That  fierce  complain  to  silence  :  while  I  stumbled 

Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 

I  came  to  a  dark  valley. — Groanings  swell'd 

Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew, 

The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue, 

That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 

This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 

Bewitch'd  me  towards  :  and  I  soon  was  near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear : 

In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene — 

The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbor  queen, 

Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root ; 

And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute, 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelling,  serpenting. 

Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting. 

O  such  deformities  !  old  Charon's  self. 

Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf. 

And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 

It  could  not  be  so  fantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 

And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look. 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 

Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out, 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more  ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 


END  YMTON.  ^ 


Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe, 

And  emptied  on  't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  ear 

In  vain  ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage  \ 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat : 

Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright ; 

For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen, 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 

Antagonizing  Boreas, — ^and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  banish'd 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo  !  from  the  dark 

Came  waggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry, — and  went — 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent. — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bovv'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent :  *  Potent  goddess  !  chief 

Of  pains  resistless !  make  my  being  brief. 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die ! 

I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again  ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife; 


9©  END  YMION. 


i  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys ! 

I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys  ; 

Ask  nought  so  heavenward,  so  too — too  high : 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die. 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh, 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  mercy.  Goddess !  Circe,  feel  my  prayer ! ' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre -like  against  my  heart. 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 
And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 
Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 
Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 
My  waking  must  have  been  !  disgust  and  hate, 
And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 
A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 
Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 
I  fled  three  days — when  lo  !  before  me  stood 
Glaring  the  angry  witch.     O  Dis,  even  now, 
A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow. 
At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curse. 
*  Ha:  ha  !  Sir  Dainty  !  there  must  be  a  nurse 
Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  express. 
To  cradle  thee,  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee :  yes, 
I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch : 
My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 
So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullabies 
Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  crlc: 


END  YM ION.  91 


Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no — it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years  ; 

And  then  'twere  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt ! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I'll  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh, 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  'i     Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe. 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 

And  speak  a  blessing  :  Mark  me  !  thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race  : 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast : 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast. 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years:  which  gone,  I  then  bequeath 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu  ! ' — As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poison'd  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 

A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  steps  ;  another  'fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 

I  found  me  ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 


92  END  YM ION. 


Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin, 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in ; 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 

Battle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 

Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  from  my  bones  all  marrow  drain'd. 

"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep — such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?     While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  disrnay'd. 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid  ; 
I  look'd — 'twas  Scylla  !     Cursed,  cursed  Circe  I 

0  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy ! 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content, 
But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 
Because  I  loved  her  ? — Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 

1  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfathom'd  brine, 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 
Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 
Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 
Gam'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold 
'Twas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold ; 

And  all  around — But  wherefore  this  to  thee 
Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see  ? — 
I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 
My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 
Met  palsy  half-way :  soon  these  limbs  became 
Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  lame. 


ENDYMION.  93 


"  Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space, 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Of  color'd  phantasy;  for  I  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason :  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"  On  a  day. 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resumed  in  spite  of  hindering  force — 
So  vanish'd  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  ^olus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could  not,  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came  :  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle  ;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck ; 
The  final  gulfing ;  the  poor  struggling  souls : 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 
O  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings  :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on  't,  O  Latmian  !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 
Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gone, 
By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion  ; 
And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone, 
With  many  a  scalding  tear,  and  many  a  groan, 


94  ENDYMION. 


When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's  hand, 
Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand. 
I  knelt  with  pain — reach'd  out  my  hand — had  grasp'd 
These  treasures  —  touch'd  the   knuckles  —  they  un. 

clasp'd — 
I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd  me — it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 
The  storm,  and  though  chill  aguish  gloom  outburst 
The  comfortable- sun.     I  was  athirst 
To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 
Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  wellnigh  won 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 
I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 
My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again. 
O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 
Each  Atlas-line  bore  off ! — a  shine  of  hope 
Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 
Strenuous  with  hellish  tyranny.     Attend  ! 
For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

" '  In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch 
His  loathed  existence  through  ten  centuries, 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition  .^     No  one.     So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 
And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die, 
These  things  accomplished  : — If  he  utter)}^ 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds  ; 


END  YMION.  95 


If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences  ; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief. 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 
Most  piously  ; — all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost. 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil : 
Which  done,  and  all  these  labors  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  loved  and  led, 
Shall  stand  before  him  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroy'd.' " 

"Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoy' d, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 
Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserved. 
What !  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerved. 
Had  we  both  perish'd  t  " — "  Look  !"  the  sage  replied, 
"  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide. 
Of  divers  brilliances  }  'tis  the  edifice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies ; 
And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  doom'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."     Thus  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscured  the  porches  shone  ; 
Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Has  legion'd  all  his  battle  ;  and  behold 


go  ENDYMiON'. 


How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 

His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares, 

And  rigid  ranks  of  iron — whence  who  dares 

One  step  ?     Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 

These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine : — 

So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows, 

Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. 

The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  traced 

Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  placed ; 

Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 

All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 

He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads  ;  saw  their  hair 

Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care  ; 

And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence. 

Put  cross-wise  to  its  hear"- 

"  Let  us  commence 
(Whisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy)  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough. 
Began  to  tear  his  scoll  in  pieces  small, 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 
That  drifts  unfeather'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow  ; 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion  :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine. 
"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine : 
But  first  a  Httle  patience  ;  first  undo 
This  tangled  thread,*  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 
Ah,  gentle  !  'tis  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 
And  shouldst  thou  break  it — What,  is  it  done  so 
clean  ? 


END  YM ION.  97 


A  power  overshadows  thee  !     Oh,  brave  ! 
The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 
Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me, 
Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  of  charactery — 
Canst  thou  read  aught  ?     O  read  for  pity's  sake ! 
Olympus  !  we  are  safe  !     Now,  Carian,  break 
This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'Twas  done :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and 
fall 
Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence. — "  Youth  !  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue." — 'Mid  the  sound 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change  !  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem, 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,  and,  stepping  to  a  beauteous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept — and  Scylla  sigh'd  I 
Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  applied — 
The  nymph  arose  :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
And  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ. 
Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead. 
And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up*its  head, 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt  it  to  his  inwards  ;  'twas  too  much  : 
Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 


9^  ENDVMTON. 


The  Latmian  persevered  alang,  and  thus 

All  were  reanimated.     There  arose 

A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 

Of  gladness  in  the  air — while  many,  who 

Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true, 

Sprang  to  each  other  madly  ;  and  the  rest 

Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 

They  gazed  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 

Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  bent. 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers,  [showers 

Budded,    and    swell'd,  and,  full-blown,    shed   full 

Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine. 

The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 

Of  happiness,  from  fairy  press  oozed  out. 

Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 

The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro, 

Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 

Of  joy  that  ever  poured  from  heaven. 

"  Away  f  ^ 

Shouted  the  new-born  god ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 

Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme  !  " 

Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 

They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 

Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 

Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 

Joyous  all  follow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 

Down  marble  steps  ;  pouring  as  easily 

As  hour-glass  sand — and  fast,  as  you  might  see 

Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 

Or  sv/ans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  not  far, 


ENDYMION.  99 


Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met, 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.     A  murmuring  rose, 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters :  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell ;  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gain'd  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks  ;  vanward  swelling  in  array, 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away, 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride ! 
God  Neptune's  palaces  !  "  With  noise  increased, 
They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect,  diamond  gleams  and  golder  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring, 
Still  onward  ;  still  the  splendor  gradual  swelled. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank;  and  deeper  drank  more  near: 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far,  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 


J  00  ENDYMION. 


As  large,  as  bright,  as  color'd  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its  march 
Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state ! 
Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate, 
To  which  the  leaders  sped  ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thought. 
And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise, 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blaze. 
And  then,  behold  !  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep  :  yet  not  exalt  alone ; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon, 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast, 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall :  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent, 
Awed  from  the  throne  aloof  ; — and  when  storm-rent 
Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air ; 
But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere. 
Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  golden-green  zenith  'hove  the  Sea-God's  head 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 


ENDYMION.  1 01 


Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air  :  air  verily, 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air, — but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless, — and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang  ; 
The  Nereids  danced  ;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang; 
And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference  ; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  eminence 
She  kiss'd  the  sea-nymph's  cheek,  who  sat  her  down 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then,  "  Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom !  "  Venus  said, 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid : 
Behold  ! " — Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes ;  he  smiled  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands. — 
"  Endymion  !     Ah  !  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love  ?     Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net  .-* 
A  little  patience,  youth  !  'twill  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious 


t02  ENDYMION. 


Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Ay,  I  have  seen  these  sicrns  in  cne  of  heaven, 
When  others  were  all  blind  ;  and  were  I  given 
To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words  :  But  Love  will  have  his  day. 
So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon, 
Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon, 
Visit  my  Cytherea  :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind  ; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee — Ah>  I  have  done, 
All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son  !  " — 
Thus  the  fair  Goddess  :  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  outreach'd  ; 
And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless,  pleach'd 
New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent  lyre ; 
The  which,  in  entangling  for  their  fire, 
Pull'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 
For  dainty  toy.     Cupid,  empire-sure,  [throng 

Flutter'd    and   laugh'd,    and    oft-times     through    the 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song, 
And  garlanding,  grew  wild  ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd. 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  'tis  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse. 
High  Muses  !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending. 


ENDYMION.  103 


All  suddenly  were  silent.     A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly  ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  King  of  the  stormy  sea ! 

Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 

Of  elements !     Eternally  before 

Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.     Fast,  stubborn  rock, 

At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 

Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 

All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 

Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  flow. 

Thou  frown  est,  and  old  ^olus  thy  foi3 

Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruff  complaint 

Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.     Dark  clouds  faint 

When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 

Slants  over  blue  dominion.     Thy  bright  team 

Gulfs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 

To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 

Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 

Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art  not 

For  scenes  like  this  :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou; 

And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 

As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 

To  blend  and  interknit 

Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 

O  shell-born  King  sublime  ! 

We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore — 

We  sing,  and  we  adore  ! 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes ; 


104  END  YM  10 IV. 


Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard  !  O  vain,  O  vain ! 

Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 

Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  or  river's  flow — 

No,  nor  the  iEolian  twang  of  Love's  own  bow, 

Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 

Of  goddess  Cytherea  ! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 

On  our  souls'  sacrifice. 

"  Bright-winged  Child ! 
Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smiled  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  death -shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence !  sweetest  of  all  minions  ! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  panting  bosoms  bare  ! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness  !  eclipser 
Of  light  in  light  !  delicious  poisoner  ! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  quaff  until 
We  fill— we  fill! 
And  by  thy  mother's  lips " 

Was  heard  no  more 
For  clamor,  when  the  golden  palace-door 
Open'd  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Ocean  us  the  old. 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold, 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  forever — Then,  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea, 


END  YM ion:  105 


Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  -^gean  seer,  her  spouse—- 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphitrite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too. — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion  ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it — shut  his  eyes  in  vain  ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"01  shall  die  !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  ! 
Where  is  my  lovely  mistress  }     Well-away  \ 
I  die — I  hear  her  voice — I  feel  my  wing — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.     A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life  : 
But  still  he  slept.     At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  away. 

Lo  !  while  slow  carried  through  the  pitying  crowd, 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud ; 
Written  in  star-light  on  the  dark  above  : 
'*  Dearest  Endymion  !  my  entire  love ! 
How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  ;  'tis  done — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then  !  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  I'll  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake  !  awake  !  " 


lo6  ENDYMjON. 


The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes  ;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonder  he  had  seen, 
Lull'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest ! 


BOOK    IV. 

Muse  of  my  native  land  !  loftiest  Muse  ! 

O  first-born  on  the  mountains  !     By  the  hues 

Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 

Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot, 

While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den  ; 

Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men ; 

Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child  ; — 

Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild, 

Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 

There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood : — 

Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 

Apollo's  garland  : — yet  didst  thou  divine 

Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in  vain, 

"  Come  hither,  Sister  of  the  Island  !  "     Plain 

Spake  fair  Ausonia  ;  and  once  more  she  spake 

A  higher  summon^  : — still  didst  thou  betake 

Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     O  thou  hast  won 

A  full  accomplishment !     The  thing  is  done, 

Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 

On  barren  souls.     Great  Muse,   thou  know'st  what 

prison 
Of  ilcsh  and  bono,  ^urbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 


ENDYMION.  107 


Our  spirits'  wings  :  despondency  besets 
Our  pillows  ;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 
Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 
Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-pace  dlives. 
Long  have  I  said,  how  happy  he  who  shrives 
To  thee  !     But  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone, 
And  could  not  pray : — nor  can  I  now — so  on 
I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. — 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !    that  I  should  fondly  part 
From  my  dear  native  land !     Ah,  foolish  maid  ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields ! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness  ;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour  : 
Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods  !    but  one  short  hour 
Of  native  air — let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows, 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.     Whereupon  he  bows 
His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent, 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  }     No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  1     No  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing ! 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?     No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?     No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  }     No  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles  ! — I  am  sad  and  lost." 


io8  ENDYMION. 


Thou,  Cariau  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air, 
Warm  mountaineer !  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms  !     Is  Phoebe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far — O  gaze  no  more  : — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store. 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them  ?     Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain, 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids  ? — Hist 


"  O  for  Hermes'  wand. 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape  I 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  her  kneeling  down, 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown  ! 
Ah  me,  how  I  could  love ! — My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth — Love  !   I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender, 
That  but  for  my  tears  life  had  fled  away ! — 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 
And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there's  not  a  sound, 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 


endymion:  109 


The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love :  there's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart !  " — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.     He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love  :  O  impious, 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus  ! 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead, 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the  wondrous 

sea  ? 
Goddess  !  I  love  thee  not  the  less  :  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not — no,  no,  no — 
While  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !    O  fond  pretence — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  twain  for  them." 


And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tremulously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay 
Sweet  as  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay ; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  softly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries : 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me  !  forgive  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity  ! 
O  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief — 
Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief! 


I  TO  EN-DYMTOJV. 


Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewitii 

I  was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  maid,  sith 

Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 

Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 

And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me ; 

Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  ray  days  ; 

And,  for  my  tortured  brain  begins  to  craze. 

Be  thou  my  nurse  ;  and  let  me  understand 

How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand. — 

Dost  weep  for  me  !     Then  should  I  be  content. 

Scowl  on,  ye  fates  !  until  the  firmament 

Outblackens  Erebus,  ^nd  the  full-cavern'd  earth 

Crumbles  into  itself.     By  the  cloud-girth 

Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 

To  meet  oblivion." — As  her  heart  would  burst 

The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  replied : 

"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 

As  that  thou  speakest  of  ?  Are  not  these  green  nooks 

Empty  of  all  misfortune  }     Do  the  brooks 

Utter  a  gorgon  voice  }     Does  yonder  thrush, 

Schooling  its  half-fledged  little  ones  to  brush 

About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  .'' — 

Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snail 

Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.     Though  if  thou  wilt, 

Methinks  'twould  be  a  guilt — a  very  guilt — 

Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 

The  light — the  dusk — the  dark — till  break  of  day. 

*'  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past : 

I  love  thee!   and  my  days  can  never  last. 

That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak ; 

Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek 


END  YM TON.  m 


No  more  delight — I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  cUmates  call, 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams  ? " — Then  she, 

Sittmg  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree, 

For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

"  O  Sorrow  ! 
Why  dost  borrow 

The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ?^ 
To  given  maiden  blushes 
To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 

Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 
Why  dost  borrow 
Heart  s  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? 
A  lover  would  not  tread 
A  cowslip  on  the  head, 


i^^  ejvdymion: 


Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day— 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bovver, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play, 

"To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good  morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind ; 

But  cheerly,  checrly. 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind : 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her. 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side 
I  sat  a  v/eeping  :  what  enamor'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side  ? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 


END  YM ION,  il3 


From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crovvn'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee.  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name ! 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  : — 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly  ! 

**  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood, 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

"  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels  !  whence  came  y^ 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? 
'  We  follow  Bacchus  !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering  ! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  !  good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide  : — > 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  i ' 
8 


I J  (>  END  YMION. 


*'  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence  came  yc, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? 
*  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree  ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth  ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  I 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  ! ' 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants, 

With  Asian  elephants  : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance. 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil  : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide. 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains  ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done  ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 


ENDYMION.  ^1$ 


"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown  ! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring  ! 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans. 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear, 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  Stranger ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  ; 

Alas  !  'tis  not  for  me  : 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then,  Sorrow, 

Sweetest  Sorrow ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast  i 

I  thought  to  leave  thee. 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best 

**  There  is  not  one. 
No,  no,  not  one 


Ii6  END  YM ION. 


But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 


O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing. 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  wordly  thing ! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her: 
And  listen'd  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearly. 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said  :  "  Poor  lady  !  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ? 
Fair  Melody  !  kind  Syren  !  I've  no  choice ; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant. evermore  : 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phoebe,  no  ! 
Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel  !  shall  it  be  so  ? 
Say,  beautifullest,  shall  I  never  think  ? 
O  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection  !   make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair ! 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly  ! — 
I'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth ; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever :  let  it  soothe 
My  madness  !  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 
With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. 
This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is ; 
And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling — this 


ENDYMICN.  117 


Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near ! 

Wilt  fall  asleep  ?     O  let  me  sip  that  tear ! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 

This  is  this  world — sweet  dewy  blossom  !  " — Woe  ! 

Woe  !  woe  to  that  Endymion  !     Where  is  he  ? — 

Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 

Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone, 

Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan  ; 

And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 

As  of  a  thunder-cloud.     When  arrows  fly 

Through  the  thick  branches,  poor,  ring-doves  sleek 

forth 
Their  timid  necks  and  tremble  ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 
Waiting  for  some  destruction — when  lo  ! 
Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyond  the  tall  tree  tops  ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropp'd 
Towards  the  ground  ;  but  rested  not,  nor  stopp'd 
One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone — even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear ; 
And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise. 
How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise — 
So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black, 
Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  his  back. 
The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.    Through  the  air  they  flew, 


1 18  ENDYMTON. 


High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 
Exhaled  to  Phoebus'  lips,  away  they  are  gone, 
Far  from  the  earth  away — unseen,  alone, 
Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free 
The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 
Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untired. 
Muse  of  my  native  land  !  am  I  inspired? 
This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 
Wide  pinions  to  keep  here  ;  nor  do  I  dread 
Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 
Precipitous  :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 
Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful  freight 
Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid  ? 
There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 
Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire ! 

There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them  ;  soon, 
It  seem'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow : 
'Twas  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow. 
For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead-born 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn  ;  for  the  first  time, 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
There  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young  man, 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintry  skin, 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 


ENDYMION.  119 


An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 

Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 

Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate, 

That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 

To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 

Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again ; 

His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist. 

Diversely  tinged  with  rose  and  amethyst, 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought ; 

And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress 

Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would  look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels, — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale, 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale, 

Descry  a  favorite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  fuU-vein'd  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop  ; 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid-aii 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting  :  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold  !  he  walks 
On  heaven's  pavement,  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers  :  from  his  hand  full  fain 


220  ENDYMION. 


Juno's  proud  birds  arc  pecking  pearly  grain : 

He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow, 

And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow : 

Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 

And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 

A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 

A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 

And  tantalizes  long  ;  at  last  he  drinks, 

And  lost  in  pleasure,  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 

Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  star-light  hand. 

He  blows  a  bugle, — an  ethereal  band 

Are  visible  above  :  the  Seasons  four, — 

Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 

In  Autumn's  sickle,  Winter  frosty  hoar, 

Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours;  while  still  the  blast, 

In  sweils  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 

To  sway  their  floating  morris.     "  Whose  is  this  ? 

Whose  bugle  ?  "  he  inquires  :  they  smile — "  O  Dis ! 

Why  is  this  mortal  here  ?     Dost  thou  not  know 

Its  mistress'  lips  ?     Not  thou? — 'Tis  Dian's  :  lo! 

She  rises  crescented  ? "     He  looks,  'tis  she. 

His  very  goddess  :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea, 

And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 

Good-bye  to  all  but  love  !     Then  doth  he  spring 

Towards  her,  and  awakes — and,  strange,  o'erhead, 

Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred. 

Beheld  awake  his  very  dream  :  the  gods 

Stood  smiling  ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods  ; 

And  Phoebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 

O  state  perplexing!     On  the  pinion  bed. 

Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 

Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died 


EKDYMION.  121 


For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 

Wiiere  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run, 

Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 

His  heart  leapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne, 

To  that  fair-shadow'd  passion  pulsed  its  way— 

Ah,  what  perplexity  !     Ah,  well  a-day ! 

So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow. 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  :  then  he  grev/ 

Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 

Young  Phoebe's,  golden  hair'd  ;  and  so  'gan  crave 

Forgiveness  :  yet  he  turn'd  once  more  to  look 

At  the  sweet  sleeper, — all  his  soul  was  shook, — 

She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber  ;  so  once  more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 

At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 

The  Latmian  started  up  :  "  Bright  goddess,  stay  ! 

Search   my   most   hidden   breast !     By   truth's   owo 

tongue 
I  have  no  daedale  heart  ;  why  is  it  wrung 
To  desperation  }     Is  there  nought  for  me. 
Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?" 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark  tresses : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
With  'havior  soft.     Sleep  yavvn'd  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  more  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm  !  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  heart-treachery ! — • 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep — her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it ;  as  it  is  whole 


122  ENDYMTOM. 


In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love ! 

Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 

Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence ! 

I  do,  I  do. — What  is  this  soul  then  ?     Whence 

Came  it  ?     It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 

Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 

Some  fearful  end  must  be  ;  where,  where  is  it  ? 

By  Nemesis !  I  see  my  spirit  flit 

Alone  about  the  .dark — Forgive  me,  sweet ! 

Shall  we  away  ? "     He  roused  the  steeds  ;  they  beat 

Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 

Leaving  old  sleep  within  his  vapory  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow. 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange- 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange, 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof 
Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof, 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  wellnigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see ; 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh'd,  or  grieved,  or  toy'd— 
Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 

P'ull  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak, 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star. 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  cimetar ; 
Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie 
Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 


ENDYMION'.  123 


She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 

Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled, 

While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd, 

To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 

This  beauty  in  its  birth — Despair !  despair  ! 

He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 

In  the  cold  moonshine.     Straight  he  seized  her  wrist; 

It  melted  from  his  grasp  ;  her  hand  he  kiss'd, 

And,  horror  I  kiss'd  his  own — he  was  alone. 

Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 

Dropt  hawk-wise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den, 
Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of  buried  griefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies ;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill  :  (the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  journey'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure  pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  painful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 


124  ENDYMTOPr. 


Who  strive  therefore  ;  on  the  sudden  it  is  won. 
Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 
Then  it  is  free  to  him  ;  and  from  an  urn, 
Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught — 
Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaff'd 
In  her  maternal  longing.     Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Paradise  !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  by  dew  ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate  ;  where  hopes  infest  ; 
Where  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that  keep 
Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home  !     O  wondrous  soul  I 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  thine  own  depth.     Hail,  gentle  Carian  ! 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began. 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Ay,  his  lu'll'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 
With  dangerous  speed  :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn 
Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  the  feather'd  horse  ;  with  fierce  alarna 
He  flapped  towards  the  sound.     Alas  !  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing :  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.      Thus  warbled  they 
While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 


ENDYMION.  125 


"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day- 
Are  empty  left  ?     Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus  :  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily  ! — 
Ah,  Zephyrus  I  art  here,  and  Flora  too  ? 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffodil, 
Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines. 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines. 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme  ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning  :  hie 

Away  !  fly,  fly  ! — 
Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  fanlike  fountains, — thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play : 
Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions  ;  make  more  bright 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night: 

Haste,  haste  away  ! 
Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery : 
A  third  is  in  the  race !  who  is  the  third, 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 


126  ENDYMION. 


The  ramping  Centaur ! 
The  Lion's  mane's  on  end  :  the  Bear  how  fierce  ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'll  be  shent, 

Pale-unrelentor, 
When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a  playing. — 
Andromeda  !  sweet  woman  !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars  :  come  hither  ! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whithei 

They  all  are  going. 
Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral  : 
Ye  shall  forever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo  !  "— 

More 

Endymion  heard  not :  down  his  steed  him  bore, 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"Alas  ! "  said  he,  ''were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous  winds,  had  but  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  forever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering  ;  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim, 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow  :  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  I  feel  the  solid  ground — Ah,  me  ! 
It  is  thy  voice — divinest !     Where  ? — who  ?  who 


END  y MI  ON".  127 


Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 

Behold  upon  this  happy  earth  we  are ; 

Let  us  aye  love  each  other ;  let  us  fare 

On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 

Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 

Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny! 

Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly, 

But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 

Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will  I  sit 

Forever  :  let  our  fate  stop  here — a  kid 

I  on  this  spot  will  offer :  Pan  will  bid 

Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 

His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 

To  nothing,  loved  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 

Or  felt  but  a  great  dream  !     Oh,  I  have  been 

Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky 

Against  all  elements,  against  the  tie 

Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 

Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 

Of  heroes  gone  !     Against  his  proper  glory 

Has  my  own  soul  conspired  :  so  my  story 

Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 

There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 

His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 

But  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here. 

Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 

My  life  from  too  thin  breathing :  gone  and  past 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewell! 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 

Of  visionary  seas  !     No,  never  more 

Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 

Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 


128  ENDYMTON. 


Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  !  although  so  vast 

My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee,  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine, 

And  bless  our  simple  lives.     My  Indian  bliss  1 

My  river-lily  bud  !  one  human  kiss  ! 

One  sigh  of  real  breath — one  gentle  squeeze, 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees. 

And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living  blood  ! 

Whither  didst  melt  ?     Ah,  what  of  that ! — all  good 

We'll  talk  about — no  more  of  dreaming. — Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?     Under  the  brow 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none ; 

And  where  dark  yew-trees,  as  we  rustle  through, 

Will  drop  their  scarlet-berry  cups  of  dew ! 

O  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place  ! 

Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 

Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined  : 

For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find, 

And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below. 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 

All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Ho»ey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring, 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see, 

And  sorrel  untorn  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag: 

Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag. 

That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam^ 


ENDYMIOAT.  129 


When  it  shall  please  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, — 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill, 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  barn. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells, 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  I'll  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine, 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

I  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 

Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 

I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire  ; 

And  to  god  Phoebus,  for  a  golden  lyre  ; 

To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting  spear ; 

To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 

That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night ; 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 

Tame  on  thy  finger  ;  to  the  River-gods, 

And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 

Of  gold,  and  lines  of  naiads'  long  bright  tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness  ! 

Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 

'Fore  which  I'll  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee : 

Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 

Laws  to  my  footsteps,  color  to  my  cheek. 

Trembling  or  steadfastness  to  this  same  voice. 

And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice  : 

And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things, 

Those  eyes,  those  passions,  those  supreme  pearl  springs 

Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 


130  END  YM ION. 


Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seizure  ? 

0  that  I  could  not  doubt ! " 

The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  brier'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye, 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow } 
Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of  the  east : 
"  O  that  the  flutter  of  his  heart  had  ceased, 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  away ! 
Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 

1  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly ; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  thee, 

With  uplift  hands  I  bless'd  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Art  thou  not  cruel  ?  ever  have  I  striven 

To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do  ! 

When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 

Favor  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 

To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love: 

But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 

All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood, 

All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good. 

Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss — 

Even  then  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this, 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers, 

And  languish'd  there  three  days.     Ye  milder  pov/erg; 

Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?     Believe,  believe 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 


END  YM  ION.  ijl 


With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  life, 
Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife  \ 
I  may  not  be  thy  love  :  I  am  forbidden — 
Indeed  I  am — thwarted,  affrighted,  chidden, 
By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 
Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  henceforth 
Ask  me  no  more  !  I  may  not  utter  it. 
Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 
Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance  ;  we  might  die ; 
We  might  embrace  and  die  :  voluptuous  thought  X 
Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I'm  caught 
In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 
No,  no,  that  shall  not  be  :  thee  will  I  bless, 
And  bid  a  long  adieu." 

The  Carian 
No  word  return'd  :  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering,  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gazed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  its  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion  !  unhappy  !  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme  : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy  lute-voiced  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shalt  aid — hast  thou  not  aided  me? 
Yes,  moonlight  Emperor!  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years; 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears. 


tS2  ENDYMION. 


Mourn'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester; — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     The  spirit  culls 
Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream  ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swoll'n  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd  ^ 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin. 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery  if 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  t    He  sees  her  not. 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  t     His  sister  sure] 
Peona  of  the  woods  ! — Can  she  endure  i^ — 
Impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles  ;  delight  is  in  her  face; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

^'  Dear  brother  mine  ! 
Endymion,  weep  not  so  !    Why  shouldst  thou  pine 


END  YM ION-.  133 


When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  ? 

Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly  ; 

And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 

Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 

Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again. 

Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  of  pain, 

Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 

Be  happy  both  of  you!  for  I  will  pull 

The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 

Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  q^lls  ; 

And  when  he  is  restored,  thou,  fairest  dame, 

Shalt  be  our  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 

To  see  ye  thus, — not  very,  very  sad  ? 

Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad  : 

O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ; 

Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 

No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye  }  but  ye  shall 

Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 

Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 

Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 

Since  in  my  arbor  I  did  sing  to  thee. 

O  Hermes !  on  this  very  night  will  be 

A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light ; 

For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 

Good  visions  in  the  air, — whence  will  befall, 

As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 

To  shepherds  and  their  flocks  ;  and  furthermore 

In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore  : 

Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  arc. 

Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far. 

Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made  ; 

And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 


134  END  YMION. 


With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 

New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 

And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows, 

Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 

This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys  ! 

His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 

His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray, 

To  lure — Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 

What  ails  thee  ?  "     He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 

Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow. 

And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said  : 

"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid ! 

My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though, 

That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go 

'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be : 

But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see, 

If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 

Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 

Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 

Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 

Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 

More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 

A  hermit  young,  I'll  live  in  mossy  cave. 

Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 

Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 

Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well ; 

For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 

And  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 

With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 

Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 

This  may  sound  strangely :  but  when,  dearest  girl. 

Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 


ENDYMION.  13s 


Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  fair ! 

Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 

This  sister's  love  with,  me  ?  "     Like  one  resign'd 

And  bent  by  circumstances,  and  thereby  blind 

In  self-commitment,  thus,  that  meek  unknown : 

"  Ay,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 

Of  jubilee  to  Dian  : — truth  I  heard  ! 

Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird, 

Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 

Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and  unaware, 

Behold  I  find  it !  so  exalted  too  ! 

So  after  my  own  heart !  I  knew,  I  knew 

There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it ; 

In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit. 

And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 

With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 

Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and  kind  lady. 

With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 

My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt : 
Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep  :  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear^ 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer, 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no, 
That  housewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.    At  the  last 


136  ENDYMION. 


Endymion  said  :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 

Why  stand  we  here  ?     Adieu,  ye  tender  pair  ! 

Adieu  !  "     Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 

Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 

His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 

Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 

In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 

Engulf  forever.     "  Stay  !  "  he  cried,  "  ah,  stay ! 

Turn,  damsels  !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say : 

Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 

It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on  :  so  I'd  fain, 

Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 

Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 

Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon, 

At  vesper's  earliest  twinkle — they  are  gone — 

But  once,  once,  once  again — "     At  this  he  prest 

His  hand  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 

His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green 

And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 

All  the  long  day  ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 

His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 

With  the  slow  move  of  time, — sluggish  and  weary 

Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary, 

Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 

And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 

Walk'd  towards  the  temple-grove  with  this  lament : 

**  Why  such  a  golden  eve }     The  breeze  is  sent 

Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 

Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 

Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 

Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 

But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 


ENDYMION.  137 


To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will  strew 

On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves, 

And  with  them  shall  I  die ;  nor  much  it  grieves 

To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 

Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 

Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies. 

Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbor-roses ; 

My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 

That  I  should  die  with  it :  so  in  all  this 

We  miscall  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break,  woe, 

What  is  there  to  plain  of  ?     By  Titan's  foe 

I  am  but  rightly  served."     So  saying,  he 

Tripped  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee  ; 

Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun, 

As  though  they  jests  had  been  :  nor  had  he  done 

His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance, 

Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance, 

And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlyhed 

Gave  utterance  as  he  enter'd  :  "  Ha  !  "  he  said, 

"  King  of  the  butterflies  ;  but  by  this  gloom, 

And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom, 

This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude, 

And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 

By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 

Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 

Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy; 

And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 

Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 

Grow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 

On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found; 

Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 

Beyond  the  reach  of  music :  for  the  choir 


X3S  END  YMION. 


Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  brier 

Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 

The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full, 

Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 

He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 

By  chilly-finger'd  spring.     Unhappy  wight ! 

'*  Endymion  !  "  said  Peona,  "  we  are  here ! 

What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier  ?  " 

Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 

Press'd,  saying  :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command, 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate.'* 

At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate 

And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love. 

To  Endymion's  amaze  :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 

And  so  thou  shalt !  and  by  the  lily  truth 

Of  my  own  breast  thou  sha],":,  beloved  youth  ! " 

And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame : 

Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 

Full  golden  ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 

Dawn'd  blue,  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he  beheld 

Phoebe,  his  passion  !  joyous  she  upheld 

Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus  :  "  Drear,  drear 

Has  our  delaying  been  ;  but  foolish  fear 

Withheld  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate  ; 

And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 

Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd-for  change 

Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 

These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 

As  was  thy  cradle  ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 

To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 


ENDYMION.  139 


Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair  good-night : 
Her  brother  kisi'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 
Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 
She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 
Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told, 
They  vanish'd  far  away  ! — Peona  went 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment 


140  LAMIA. 


LAMIA. 


PART  I. 


Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 

Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  prosperous  woods, 

Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 

Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  gem, 

Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 

From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cowslipp  d  lawns, 

The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 

His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  theft: 

From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light. 

On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 

Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 

Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 

For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 

A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt ; 

At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  pour'd 

Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither'd  and  adored 

Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wont, 

And   in    those    meads    where    sometimes  she  might 

haunt, 
Were  strewn  rich  gifts,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 
Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 


LAMIA.  14- 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 

So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 

Burn'd  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear, 

That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 

Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair, 

Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare. 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood,  to  wood  he  flew, 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 

And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head. 

To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepared  her  secret^ 

bed  : 
In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found. 
And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground, 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful  voice. 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  the  lone  voice  spake  : 
"  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I  awake ! 
When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life, 
And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
Of  hearts  and  lips  !     Ah,  miserable  me  !  " 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft-brushing,  in  his  speed, 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed. 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake, 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue  ; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard, 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd ; 


142  LAMIA. 

And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  intervvrealhed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries — 
So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries, 
She  seem'd  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf, 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 
Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet ! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  complete : 
And  for  her  eyes — what  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born  so  fair  ? 
As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 
Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Came,  as  through  bubbling  honey,  for  Love's  sake, 
And  thus;  while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay, 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey  : 

"Fair  Hermes!  crown'd  with  feathers,  fluttering 
light, 
I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night ; 
I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old, 
The  only  sad  one  ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
The  soft,  lute-finger'd  Muses  chanting  clear, 
Nor  even  Apolio  when  he  sang  alone. 
Deaf  to  his   throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodious 

moan. 
I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes, 
Break  amorous  through  the  clouds,  as  morning  breaks, 
And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Phoebean  dart. 
Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle ;  and  here  thou  art ! 


LAMIA.  143 

Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid  ? " 
Whereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired  : 
"  Thou  smooth-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high-inspired  \ 
Thou  beauteous  wreath,  with  melancholy  eyes, 
Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise, 
Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled, —        [said," 
Where  she  doth  breathe  !  "    ''  Bright  planet,  thou  hast 
Returned  the  snake,  "  but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God  ! " 
"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod, 
And  by  thine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown !  " 
Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the  blossoms 

blown. 
Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine  : 
"  Too  frail  of  heart !  for  this  lost  nymph  of  thine, 
Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 
About  these  thornless  wilds  ;  her  pleasant  days 
She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  nimble  feet 
Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet : 
From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green, 
She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen : 
And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 
To  keep  it  unaffronted,  unassail'd 
By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 
Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 
Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  woe 
Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 
I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 
Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 
Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 
To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 
Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone. 


144  LAMIA. 

If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my  boon!" 

Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 

An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 

Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalteriai 

Ravish'd  she  lifted  her  Circean  head, 

Blush'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping  said, 

"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 

A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before 

I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth — O  the  bliss  ! 

Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place  me  where  he  is. 

Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breathe  upon  thy  brow. 

And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now." 

The  God  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene,    . 

She  breathed  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was  seen 

Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the  greea 

It  was  no  dream  ;  or  say  a  dream  it  was. 

Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly  pass 

Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 

One  warm,  flush'd  moment,  hovering,  it  might  seem 

Dash'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd ; 

Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure,  turn'd 

To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid  arm, 

DeHcate,  put  to  proof  the  Hthe  Caducean  charm. 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment, 

And  towards  her  stept :  she,  like  a  moon  in  wane, 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self-folding  like  a  flower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour : 

But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand. 

She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland; 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of  bees 


LAMIA.  I4S 

Bloom'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  lees. 
Into  the  green-recessed  woods  they  flew  ; 
Nor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 

Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change  ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran, 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent  ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear, 
Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash'd    phosphor    and    sharp   sparks,    without    one 

cooling  tear. 
The  colors  all  inflamed  throughout  her  train, 
She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain : 
A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace  ; 
And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead, 
Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede  : 
Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  bars, 
Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her  stars: 
So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 
Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst, 
And  rubious-argent  :  of  all  these  bereft 
Nothing  but  pain  and  ugliness  were  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 
Melted  and  disappeared  as  suddenly : 
And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft, 
Cried,  "  Lycius  !  gentle  Lycius  !  " — borne  aloft 
With  the  bright  mists  about  the  mountains  hoar 
These  words  dissolved  :  Crete's  forests  heard  no  more. 

Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 


14&  LAMIA. 

A  full-born  beauty  new  and  exquisite  ? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Cenchreas'  shore ; 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills, 
The  rugged  founts  of  the  Peraean  rills, 
And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack. 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood. 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills. 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah,  happy  Lycius  ! — for  she  was  a  maid 
More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid. 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flower'd  lea 
Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy  : 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learned  to  the  red  heart's  core: 
Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplex  bliss  from  its  neighbor  pain ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counterchange , 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art ; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent, 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languishment. 

Why  this  fair  creature  chose  so  fairiiy 
Ey  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see ; 


LAM  J  A  147 

But  first  'tis  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 

And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-house, 

Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent : 

How,  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went ; 

Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 

Down  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Nereids  fair 

Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly  stair ; 

Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 

Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous  pine ; 

Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 

Mulciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian  line. 

And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 

Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend  ; 

And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus, 

She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 

Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 

Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face, 

And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 

Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 

He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew, 

To  Corinth  from  the  shore  ;  for  freshly  blew 

The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 

Grated  the  quay-stones  with  her  brazen  prow 

In  port  Cenchreas,  from  Egina  isle 

Fresh  anchor'd  ;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 

To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 

Waits  with  high  marble  doors  for  blood  and  incense 

rare. 
Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  desire  ; 
For  by  some  freakful  chance  he  made  retire 
From  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk. 
Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk : 


14^  LAMIA. 

Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared, 

Thoughtless,  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appear'd 

His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades, 

In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 

Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near — - 

Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifference  drear. 

His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green ; 

So  neighbor'd  to  him,  and  yet  so  unseen 

She  stood  :  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 

His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while  her  eyes 

Follow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 

Turn'd — syllabling  thus,  "  Ah,  Lycius  bright ! 

And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone  ? 

Lycius  look  back  !  and  be  some  pity  shown." 

He  did  ;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly. 

But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice ; 

For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung, 

It  seem'd  he  had  loved  them  a  whole  summer  long : 

And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up, 

Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup, 

And  still  the  cup  was  full, — while  he,  afraid 

Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lip  had  paid 

Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore  ; 

Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  so  sure : 

"  Leave  thee  alone  !  Look  back  !  Ah,  Goddess,  see 

Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee  ! 

For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie — 

Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die. 

Stay !  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay  I 

To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey : 

Stay !  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy  domain, 

Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rain ; 


LAM  J  A.  149 

Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 

Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 

Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 

So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 

Came  thy  sweet  greeting,  that  if  thou  shouldst  fade, 

Tliy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade  : — 

For  pity  do  not  melt !  " — "  If  I  should  stay," 

Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay, 

And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too  rough. 

What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 

To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home  ? 

Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 

Over  these  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is, — 

Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  ! 

Thou  art  a  scholar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 

That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below 

In  human  climes,  and  live  :  Alas  !  poor  youth, 

What  taste  of  purer  air  hast  thou  to  soothe 

My  essence  ?     What  serener  palaces, 

Where  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please, 

And  by  mysterious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  appease*, 

It  cannot  be — Adieu  !  "     So  said,  she  rose 

Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 

The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 

Swoon'd  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain. 

The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show 

Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favorite's  woe, 

But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 

With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity. 

Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 

The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh : 

And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 


rS^  LAMIA. 

Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 

Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  everything, 

A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres. 

While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  panting 

fires. 
And  then  she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling  tone, 
As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
For  the  first  time  through  many  anguish'd  days, 
Use  other  speech  than  looks  ;  bidding  him  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt, 
For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 
Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 
Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  pains 
Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 
And  next  she  wonder  d  how  his  eyes  could  miss 
Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said, 
She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had  led 
Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 
Without  the  aid  of  love  ;  yet  in  content 
Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by, 
Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 
At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 
Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 
Late  on  that  eve,  as  'twas  the  night  before 
The  Adonian  feast;  whereof  she  saw  no  more, 
But  wept  alone  those  days,  for  why  should  she  adore  ? 
Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze. 
To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays ; 
Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 
To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well ; 
And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 
To  unperplex'd  delight  and  pleasure  known. 


LAMIA.  151 

Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 
Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 
There  is  not  such  a  treat  among  them  all, 
Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  'and  waterfall, 
As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 
From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 
Thus  gentle  Lamia  judged,  and  judged  aright, 
That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright. 
So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 
More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part. 
With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave, 
That,  while  it  smote,  still  guaranteed  to  save. 
Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply. 
Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh ; 
And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet, 
If  'twas  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft  feet. 
The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 
Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 
To  a  few  paces  ;  not  at  all  surmised 
By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised 
They  pass'd  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how. 
So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 

As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all, 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial. 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples  lewd, 
Mutter'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brew'd. 
To  the  wide-spreaded  night  above  her  towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  cool  hours, 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement  white, 
Companion'd  or  alone  ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festivals, 


152  LAMIA. 

And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls, 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  the  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  temple  door,  or  dusky  colonnade. 

Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear, 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  curl'd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and  smooth  bald 

crown, 
Slow-stepp'd,  and  robed  in  philosophic  gown : 
Lycius  shrank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past, 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
While  hurried  Lamia  trembled :  "Ah,"  said  he, 
«*  Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully  ? 
Why  does  your  tender  palm  dissolve  in  dew?" — - 
"  I'm  wearied,"  said  fair  Lamia :  "  tell  me  who 
Is  that  old  man  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
His  features : — Lycius  !  wherefore  did  you  blind 
Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes  ?  "     Lycius  replied, 
**  'Tis  Apollonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 
And  good  instructor  ;  but  to-night  he  seems 
The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofty  portal  door. 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp  whose  phosphor  glow 
Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
Mild  as  a  star  in  water  ;  for  so  new 
And  so  unsullied  was  the  marble  hue. 
So  through  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine, 
Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 
Could  e'er  have  touch'd  there.     Sounds  i^olian 
Breathed  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 


LAMIA.  153 

Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  place  unknown 

Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone, 

And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 

Were  seen  about  the  markets  :  none  knew  where 

They  could  inhabit ;  the  most  curious 

Were   foil'd,   who   watch'd   to   trace    them   to   their 

house: 
And  but  the  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 
For  truth's  sake  what  woe  afterwards  befell, 
'Twould  humor  many  a  heart  to  leave  them  thus, 
Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredulous. 


PART  II. 


Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust. 

Is — Love,  forgive  us  ! — cinders,  ashes,  dust ; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

More  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast : — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  faery  land, 

Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  understand. 

Had  Lycius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down, 

He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh  frown, 

Or  clench'd  it  quite  :  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the  soft  voice 

hiss. 
Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare. 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful  roar, 
Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber  door, 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor. 


£54  LAMIA. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin  :  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  even  tide, 
Upon  a  couch,  near  to  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string, 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  clear, 
Betwixt  two  marble  shafts  : — there  they  reposed. 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 
Saving  a  tithe  which  love  still  open  kept. 
That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost 

slept  ; 
When  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill, 
Deafening  the  swallow's  twitter,  came  a  thrill 
Of  trumpets — Lycius  started — the  sounds  fled, 
But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 
For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbor'd  in 
That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin. 
His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 
Into  the  noisy  world  almost  forsworn. 
The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant, 
Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 
Of  something  more,  more  than  her  empery 
Of  joys  ;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 
Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 
That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing  bell 
"  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  ?  "  whisper'd  he  : 
"  Why,  do  you  think  ?"  return'd  she  tenderly  : 
*'  You  have  deserted  me  ;  where  am  I  now  ? 
Not    in    your   heart    while    care    weighs    on   your 

brow : 
No,  no,  you  have  dismissed  me  ;  and  I  go 
From  j'our  breast  houseless  :  ay,  it  must  be  so." 


LAMIA.  155 

He  answer' cl,  bending  to  her  open  eyes, 

Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, — 

"  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn  I 

Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 

While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 

With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart  ? 

How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 

Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labyrinth  you  there. 

Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 

Ay,  a  sweet  kiss — you  see  your  mighty  woes. 

My  thoughts  !  shall  I  unveil  them  ?     Listen  then  ! 

What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 

May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 

But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  miajestical, 

And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 

Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice 

Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar. 

While  through  the  thronged  streets  your  bridal  car 

Wheels   round   its   dazzling   spokes-" — The   lady's 

cheek 
Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and  meek, 
Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 
Of  sorrows  at  his  words  ;  at  last  with  pain 
Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung, 
To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was  stung 
Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 
Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim  ; 
Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self  despite, 
Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 
Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new. 
His  passion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 
Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  'twas  possible 


IS6  LAMIA. 

In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  swell. 

Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 

Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 

The  serpentina,  the  serpent !  certes,  she 

Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  loved  the  tyranny, 

And,  all  subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 

When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 

Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 

"  Sure  some  sweet   name  thou  hast,  though,  by  my 

truth, 
I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny, 
As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name, 
Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame  } 
Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth, 
To  share  our  marriage  feast  and  nuptial  mirth  }  " 
*'  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one  ; 
My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known  : 
My  parents*  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 
Sepulchred,  where  no  kindled  incense  burns. 
Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  me. 
And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests ; 
But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 
With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 
Old  Apollonius — from  him  keep  me  hid." 
Lycius  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank, 
Made  close  inquiry  ;  from  whose  touch  she  shrank, 
Feigning  a  sleep ;  and  he  to  the  du"  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 


LAMIA.  157 

The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of  day, 

Veird,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 

By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage  song. 

With  other  pageants  :  but  this  fair  unknown 

Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone 

(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin), 

And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 

His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompousness, 

She  set  herself,  high-thoughted,  how  to  dress 

The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 

She  did  so,  but  'tis  doubtful  how  and  whence 

Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 

About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 

There  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  short  space 

The  glowing  banquet-room  shone  with  wide-arched 

grace. 
A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  faery-roof,  made  moan 
Throughout,    as   fearful    the   whole   charm    might 

fade. 
Fresh  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  glade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side, 
High  in  the  midst,  in  honor  of  the  bride  : 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 
From  either  side  their  stems  branch'd  one  to  one 
All  down  the  aisled  place  ;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall  to 

wall. 
So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odors.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went, 


t58  LAMIA. 

Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendor  of  each  nook  and  niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems  marbled  plain  at  first, 
Came  jasper  panels  ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees, 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 
Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will, 
And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still, 
Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude,  [tude. 

When  dreadful  guests  would  come  to  spoil  her  soli- 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius  .  Madman  !   wherefore  flout 
The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister'd  hourr. 
And  show  to  common  eyes  these  secret  bowers  ? 
The  herd  approached,  each  guest,  with  busy  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain, 
And  enter'd  marvelling  :  for  they  knew  the  strecL', 
Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 
Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
That  royal  porch,  that  high-built  fair  demesne; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and  keen : 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe, 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere ; 
'Twas^^pollonius  :  something  too  he  laugh'd, 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had  daft 
His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to  thaw. 
And  solve  and  melt  : — 'twas  just  as  he  foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.     "  'Tis  no  common  rule, 


LAMIA.  159 

In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  guest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
With  an  unbidden  presence  the  bright  throng 
Of  younger  friends ;  yet  must  I  do  this  wrong, 
And  you  forgive  me."     Lycius  blush'd  and  led 
The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broadspread; 
With  reconciling  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet- room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume. 
Before  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the  soft 
Wool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables  by  silk  seats  insphered, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
C  n  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Cf  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  feast  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a  God. 

When  in  an  antechamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  press'd, 


l6o  LAMIA. 

By  ministering  slaves,  upon  his  hands' and  feet, 
And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  they  all  moved  to  the  feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  mighty  cost  and  blaze  of  wealth  could 
spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  the  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowell'd  under-song 
Kept  up  among  the  guests,  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scaioely  was  the  wine  at  flow  ; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  touch'd  their  brains, 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments  : — the  gorgeous  dyes. 
The  space,  the  splendor  of  the  draperies, 
The  roof  ot  awiul  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear, 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed, 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed. 
No  more  so  strange  ;  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine. 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height ; 
Flush'a  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright   eyes  double 

bright : 
Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflower'd,  or  forest-trees  branch-rent, 
In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  brought 
High  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
Of  every  guest ;  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  fancy-fit  his  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at  his  ease. 


LAMIA.  i6l 

What  wreath  for  Lamia  ?     What  for  Lycius  ? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  Apollonius  ? 
Upon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue ; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  him 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may  swim 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  and,  for  the  sage, 
Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.     Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven : 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture  ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  ere  while  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 


By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place, 
Scarce  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face, 
Till,  checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 
Full  brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
From  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance, 
And  pledge  him.     The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  a  stir, 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride. 
Brow-beating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet 
pride. 


102  LA  Ml  A. 

Lycius  then  pressed  her  hand,  with  devout  touch, 

As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch  : 

'Twas  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins ; 

Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 

Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 

*'  Lamia,  what  means   this  ?     Wherefore  dost  thou 

start  ? 
Know'st  thou  that  man  ! "    Poor  Lamia  answer'd  not. 
He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Ovvn'd  they  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal : 
More,  more  he  gazed  :  his  human  senses  reel : 
Some  hungry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs; 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs. 
"  Lamia !  "  he  cried — and  no  soft-toned  reply. 
The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 
Grew  hush  :   the  stately  music  no  more  breathes  ; 
The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  thousand  wreathes. 
By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased  ; 
A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased, 
Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there, 
And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 
''  Lamia  !  "  he  shriek'd  ;  and  nothing  but  the  shriek 
With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 
"  Begone,  foul  dream  !  "  he  cried,  gazing  again 
In  .the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 
Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples  ;  no  soft  bloom 
Misted  the  cheek ;  no  passion  to  illume 
The  deep-recessed  vision  : — all  was  blight ; 
Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 
"Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man! 
Turn  them  aside,  wretch !  or  the  righteous  ban 


LAMIA.  163 

Of  all  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences, 

May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the  thorn 

Of  painful  blindness  ;  leaving  thee  forlorn, 

In  trembling  dotage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long-offended  might, 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophistries, 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians  !  look  upon  that  gray-beard  wretch  ! 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !     Corinthians,  see ! 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency." 

"  Fool !  "  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-tone 

Gruff  with  contempt  ;  which  a  death-nighing  moan 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost, 

He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

"  Fool !  Fool ! "  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 

Relented  not,  nor  moved  ;  ''from  every  ill 

Of  life  have  I  preserved  thee  to  this  day, 

And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey } " 

Then    Lamia   breathed   death-breath ;    the    sophist^S 

eye, 
Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  utterly, 
Keen,  cruel,  perceant,  stinging  :  she,  as  well 
As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 
Motioned  him  to  be  silent  ;  vainly  so, 
He  looked  and  look'd  again  a  level — No  ! 
"  A  serpent  !  "  echoed  he  ;  no  sooner  said, 
Than  with  a  frii^htful  scream  she  vanished: 
And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight, 
A.s  -vere  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  nicfht 


i04    -  LAMIA. 

On  the  high  couch  he  lay  ! — his  friends  came  round — 
Supported  him — no  pulse  or  breath  they  found, 
And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound  * 

*  "  Philostratus,  in  his  fourth  book,  de  Vita  Apollonit,  hath  a  memorable  in- 
stance in  this  kind,  which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus  Lycius,  a  young 
man  twenty-five  years  of  age,  that,  going  betwixt  Cenchreas  and  Corinth,  met 
such  a  phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman,  which,  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  carried  him  home  to  her  house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth,  and  told  him 
she  was  a  Phoenician  by  birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  he  should  hear 
her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine  as  never  any  drank,  and  no  man  should 
molest  him ;  but  she,  being  fair  and  lovely,  would  die  with  him,  that  was  fair 
and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philosopher,  otherwise  staid  and  dis- 
creet, able  to  moderate  his  passions,  though  not  this  of  love,  tarried  with  her 
awhile  to  his  great  content,  and  at  last  married  her,  to  whose  wedding,  amongst 
other  guests,  came  Apollonius ;  who,  by  some  probable  conjectures,  found  her 
out  to  be  a  serpent,  a  lamia ;  and  that  all  her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus'  gold, 
described  by  Homer,  no  substance,  but  mere  illusions.  When  she  saw  herself 
descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  Apollonius  to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be 
moved,  and  thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  vanished  in  an 
instant ;  many  thousands  took  notice  of  this  fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst 
of  Greece."— Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy^  Part  3,  Sect.  2,  Memb.  L 
Subs.  I. 


ISABELLA.  165 


ISABELLA  ;  OR,  THE  POT  OF  BASIL. 

A   STORY,    FROM    BOCCACCIO. 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep, 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

II. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 

III. 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 


l66  ISABELLA. 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies  ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same  skies  ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning  step  upon  the  stair. 

IV. 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June : 

"  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon." — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breath  not  love's  tune." — 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows  ;  but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass ; 

V. 

Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain. 

Fell  thin  as  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain  : 

'*  How  ill  she  is !  "  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak. 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain  : 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears, 

And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  off  her  cr.res." 

VI. 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak  ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 


ISABELLA.  l6y 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away — 

Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 
Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child : 
Alas !  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  ! 

VII. 

So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 

A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 
If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 

To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high  ; 
She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 

And  straight  all  flush'd  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 
"  Lorenzo  !  " — here  she  ceased  her  timid  quests 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  resL 

VIII. 

"  O  Isabella  !  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear ; 

If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe. 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom  :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing  ;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX. 

"  Love !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady  !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time." 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold. 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme ; 


1 68  ISABELLA. 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 
Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 

X. 

Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill, 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 

XI. 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 

Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale. 

Ah !    better  had  it  been  forever  so, 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe. 

XII. 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot  be — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 


ISABELLA,  169 

XIII. 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 
Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers, 

Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 

^  XIV. 

^Vith  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt. 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories. 

And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip  ;  with  hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  drif tings  of  the  flood. 

XV. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark; 

For  them  bis  ears  gush'd  blood  ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts  ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark: 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 

XVI. 

Why  were  they  proud  }     Because  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  m.  re  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears? 


lyo  ISABELLA. 


Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar  stairs  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 

XVII. 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 
As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 

Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies; 
The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  untired 

And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies- 
Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away,— 
Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 

VIII. 

How  was  it  these  same  leger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?     Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west  ? 

Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 

Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

f 

XIX. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And.  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 


ISABELLA.  171 


And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 

XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 

Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet : 
But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  fail — 

To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  ihce  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI. 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  wellnigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 

Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bonej 


172  ISABELLA. 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 
To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise, 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV. 

"To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennin^  ; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness, 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress, 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along, 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song. 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft  ; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice  all  delight. 


ISABELLA.  173 

XXVI. 

"  Love,  Isabel !  "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good-morrow: 

Ah  !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

Good-by!     I'll    soon   be   back."— "  Good-by !  "    said 
she: 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straighten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against'the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.     They  pass'd  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 

Ah  !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  : 

They  dipp'd' their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur. 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 


174  ISABELLA. 

XXIX. 
They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 

Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 
Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 

In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 
Poor  girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed, 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands ; 
To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 
And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone  : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see. 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And   on   her   couch   low   murmuring,    "Where?    O 
where } " 

XXXI. 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 

Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 
She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 

Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 
Not  long;  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 

Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 
Came  tragic  ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued. 
And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXII. 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 


ISABELLA.  175 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

XXXIII. 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long  }     They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

XXXIV. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 

But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather'd  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a  lance, 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

XXXV. 

7K<rt<  was  q  vision.     In  the  drowsy  gloom. 

The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 
Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 

Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 
Lustre  into  the  cun,  and  put  cold  doom 


176  ISABELLA. 

Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 
From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 
Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake ; 

For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung  : 
Langor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 

As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars  among. 

XXXVII. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell, 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortleberries  droop  above  my  head, 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed  : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 


ISABELLA.  X7> 

XXXIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ) 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human  nature  dwelling 

Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  kneeling, 

And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 
And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling, 

Paining  me   through :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to 
me, 

And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL. 

**  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

A  seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad : 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 

XLI. 

The  Spirit  mourn'd  "  Adieu  !  " — dissolved,  and  left 

The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 
As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 

Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toiJ> 
We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft. 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 
It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake  ; 


1 78  ISABELLA. 

XLII. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  hfe, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery  ; 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die  ; 

But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy : 

I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 

And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 

XLIII. 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  dame. 

And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide, 

Shows  her  a  knife. — "  What  feverous  hectic  flame 

Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — what  good  can  thee  betide 
That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  ?  " — The   evening 
came. 

And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 

The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 


ISABELLA.  179 

XLV. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard, 

And  let  his  spirit,  Hke  a  demon  mole, 
Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 

To  see  skull,  coffin'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole  ; 
Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  had  marr'd, 

And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 
Ah  !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 
When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI. 

She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVir. 
Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 

Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies ; 
She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 

And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 
And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone  \ 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant^^ries  :    . 
Then  'gan  she  vvork  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 

XLVIII. 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 


l8o  ISABELLA, 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar. 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing  : 
Three  hours  they  labor'd  at  this  travail  sore ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 

And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak  : — O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  visiq^  pale. 

L. 

With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.     The  ancient  harps  have  said). 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead. 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'Twas  love  ;  cold — dead  indeed,  but  not  dethroned. 

LI. 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel  : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash  ;  the  smeared  loam 


ISABELLA.  I8i 


With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 
She  drench'd  away  :  and  still  she  comb'd'and  kept 
Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd  and  wept. 

LII. 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by, 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

LIII. 

And  she  forgot  theOo^rs,  the  moon,,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run, 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze  ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  ever  more. 

And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 

LIV. 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew. 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil  tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears,     [view; 
From   the  fast  mouldering  bead   there  shut  from 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leaflets  spread 


i82  ISABELLA. 

LV. 
O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily. 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms. 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 

LVI. 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go. 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low ; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead  :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVII. 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself  ; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour  !— 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes  ;  and  many  a  curious  elf. 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIII. 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 


ISABELLA.  183 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch  ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean: 
They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 

A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 
Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 
And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delav 

LIX. 

Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain  : 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again  : 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair 

LX. 

Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place  : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot. 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face : 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got. 

And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went. 
With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI. 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day. 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh ! 


l84  ISABELLA. 

Spirits  of  g:rief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way  ! " 

For-  Isabel  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

LXII, 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things, 

Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously: 
And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 

Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 
After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was  ;  and  why 
*Twas  hid  from  her  :  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she 
'*  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me.'* 

LXIII. 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  muurn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  borne 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the  country  pass'd: 
Still  is  the  burden  sung—"  O  cruelty, 
To  steal  my  Basil -pot  away  from  me  I" 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES.  xS^ 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


I. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve --Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


i86  THE   EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES. 


III. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinner's  sake  to  grieve. 


IV. 


That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new-stuff' d,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 

V/hose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 


THE   EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES.  l8^ 


On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright  ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white, 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw'many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all  :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 


VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathmg  quick  and  short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 


l88  THE   EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES. 

'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  mom. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,   touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 

X. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  feverous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance  '  the  aged  creature  came. 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES.  189 


Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland : 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here   to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty 
race ! 

XII. 

"  Get  hence  !    get  hence !  there's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand  : 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away," — **  Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We're  safe  enough  ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "  Good  Saints  I  not  here,  not 

here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

XII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a-day  !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
•'  O  tell  me  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes  'wool  are  weaving  piously." 


IQO  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES. 


XIV. 


"  St.  Agnes  !   Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze. 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !   my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night  :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 


XV. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldam  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 


THE   EVE    OF  ST.    A  GATES.  19 1 


From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !    I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem. 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul } 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 


192  THE   Ei'E    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt 

XX. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and  chaste  ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 


THE   EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES.  193 

She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ;  [fled. 

She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
'    Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 

N^  utter'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and 
kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 


194  THE   EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES. 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

xxvii. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex' d  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
BUssfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

xxviii. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 


THE  EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES.  1 95 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  ! — how  fast 
she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 


196  THE    E\E    OE  ST.    AGNES. 


In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache.*' 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy : " 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 


THE   EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES.  197 


There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah,  Porphyro  ! "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

xxxvi. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose : 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes  ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


19^  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline !" 
'Tis  dark  :  the  ice  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
*'  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !'  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest } 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark  !    'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  ; — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake  !    arise  !    my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 


THE  EVE    OF  ST.  AGNES.  1 99 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  wa}-  they  found, 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  and  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


200  HYPERION. 


HYPERION. 


BOOK  I. 


Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star. 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone. 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  ^ream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  : 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  listening  to  the  Earth 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 


HYPERION.  20i 


It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place  ; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 
Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestal'd  haply  in  a  palace-court, 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh  !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face  : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  fqlt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents  ;  O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods ! 
**  Saturn,  look  up  ! — though  wherefore,  poor  old  King'? 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no,  not  one  : 


202  HYPERION. 


I  cannot  say,  '0  wherefore  sleepest  thou?' 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God ; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
O  aching  time  !  O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on  : — O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  } 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  .-* 
Saturn,  sleep  on !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep.'* 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars. 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir. 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave : 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 


HYPERION.  203 


And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 

Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern ; 

The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 

And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 

Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 

His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 

And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 

And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess  ;  and  then  spake 

As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 

Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady : 

"  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 

Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face ; 

Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 

Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 

Is  Saturn's  ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 

Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 

Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem. 

Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 

To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the  strength  ? 

How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth. 

While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ? 

But  it  is  so ;  and  I  am  smother'd  up. 

And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 

Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 

Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas, 

Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting, 

And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 

Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.     I  am  gone 

Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 

My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 

Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I  sit 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search  \ 


204  HYPERION. 


Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 

Upon  all  space :  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of  light : 

Space  region'd  with  life-air,  and  barren  void ; 

Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell. 

Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me  if  thou  seest 

A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 

With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 

A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile :  it  must — it  must 

Be  of  ripe  progress— Saturn  must  be  king. 

Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory ; 

There   must  be   Gods    thrown   down,  and   trumpets 

blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command  : 
Thea!  Thea!  Thea!  where  is  Saturn .?  " 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air. 
His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat, 
His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing  deep ; 
A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 
Utterance  thus  : — "  But  cannot  I  create  } 
Cannot  I  form  ?     Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe, 
To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought } 
Where  is  another  chaos  }     Where  t  "     That  word 
Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 


HYPERION.  205 


The  rebel  three.  Thea  was  startled  up, 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 
As  thus  she  quick-voice  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house  :  come  to  our  friends, 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 
Thus  brief  ;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  space: 
He  follow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave,  iipmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listened  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty ; 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbid  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God,  yet  unsecure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudder'd  he, 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve, 
Oft  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 


206  HYPERION. 


Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold, 

And  tOLich'd  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 

Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thousand  courtS; 

Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries, 

And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 

Flush'd  angerly :  while  sometimes  eagles'  wings, 

Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 

Darken'd  the  place  ;  and  neighing  steeds  were  heard 

Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 

Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 

Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 

Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 

Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick : 

And  so,  when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, 

For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch, 

And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 

He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 

With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall  ; 

While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess, 

His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood. 

Amazed  and  full  of  fear  ;  like  anxious  men 

Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops, 

When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 

Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance. 

Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 

Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west ; 

Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 

In  smoothed  silence,  save  what  solemn  tubes, 

Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 

And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodies ; 


HYPERION. 


207 


And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 
Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath  ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire. 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault. 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola ; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stampt  his  foot. 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region  ;  and  before 
The  quavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceased. 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb, 
To  this  result :  ''  O  dreams  of  day  and  night ! 
O  monstrous  forms  !  O  effigies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom  ! 
O  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black-weeded  pools ! 
Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new  ? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest. 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime. 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light. 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes. 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire?     It  is  left 


208  HYPERION. 


Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 

The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry, 

I  cannot  see — but  darkness,  death  and  darkness. 

Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 

The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 

Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp — 

Fall! — No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  ! 

Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 

I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 

Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 

And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again." 

He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  but  came  not  forth ; 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Hush  !  " 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold ; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the  crown, 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convulsed 

From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush, 

He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy  portals, 

Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them  wide 

Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 

The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 

Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through, 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds ; 


HYPERION.  209 


Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid, 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 
Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 
Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 
Up  to  the  zenith — hieroglyphics  old, 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  laboring  thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries  : 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants  huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart  ;  their  import  gone, 
Their  wisdom  long  since  fled.     Two  wings  this  orb 
Possess'd  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach : 
And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  plumes  immense 
Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were  ; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd  eclipse, 
Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 
And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might' not : — No,  though  a  primeval  God  : 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturbed. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  told. 
Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb  ;  the  porches  wide 
Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 
And  the  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new  woes, 
Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time  ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 

14 


2IO  HYPER  TON. 


He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 

There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 

Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 

Of  Coelus,  from  the  universal  space, 

Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear: 

"  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 

And  sky-engender  d,  Son  of  Mysteries  ! 

All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 

Which  met  at  thy  creating  !  at  whose  joys 

And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 

I,  Coelus,  wonder  how  they  came  and  whence ; 

And  at  the  fruits  thereof  .what  shapes  they  be, 

Distinct,  and  visible  ;  symbols  divine, 

Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 

Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space ; 

Of  these  new-form'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child  I 

Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses ! 

There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 

Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 

I  saw  my  firstborn  tumbled  from  his  throne ! 

To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 

Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head! 

Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 

Art  thou,  too,  near  suth  doom  }  vague  fear  there  is : 

For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 

Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 

In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd, 

Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and  ruled : 

Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 

Actions  of  rage  and  passion :  even  as 

I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 

In  men  who  die. — This  is  the  grief,  O  Son ! 


HYPERION'.  ^W 


Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 
Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable, 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God, 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence  : — I  am  but  a  voice  ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, — 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail : — 
But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
Of  circumstance  ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur. — To  the  earth  ! 
For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse." — 
Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come  down 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars 
Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide  : 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night. 


BOOK  II. 


Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings 
Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air. 
And  Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad  place 
Where  Cybele  and  the  bruised  Titans  mourn'd. 
It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 


212     .  HYPERION. 


Could  glimmer  on  their  tears  ;  where  their  own  groans 

They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 

Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 

Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 

Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 

Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 

Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns; 

And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 

Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 

Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint  they  sat  upon, 

Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 

Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assembled: 

Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 

Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareiis, 

Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 

With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault, 

Were  pent  in  legions  of  laborious  breath  ; 

Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element  to  keep 

Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 

Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  cramp'd  and  screw'd ; 

Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 

Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 

With  sanguine,  feverous,  boiling  gurge  of  pulse. 

Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world  ; 

Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wander'd  ; 

And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 

But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert  drear. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there. 

Lay  vast  and  edgeways  ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 

Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 

Wljcn  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve. 

In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 


HVPERfQN.  213 


The  heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 

Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbor  gave 

Or  word  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 

Creiis  was  one  ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 

lapetus  another  ;  in  his  grasp, 

A  serpent's  plashy  neck ;  its  barbed  tongue 

Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncurl'd  length 

Dead  ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 

Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 

Next  Cottus :  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 

As  though  in  pain  ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 

He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 

And  eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 

Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 

Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs, 

Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons  : 

More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky  face, 

For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory ; 

And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 

Palm-shaded  temples,  and  high  rival  fanes 

By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 

Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans, 

So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 

Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 

Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 

Upon  his  elbow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 

Shadow'd  Enceladus  ;  once  tame  and  mild 

As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads ; 

Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth, 

He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 


214  HYPERION. 


Was  hurling  moutitains  in  that  second  war. 
Not  long  delay'd,  that  scared  the  younger  Gods 
To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 
Not  far  hence  Atlas  ;  and  beside  him  prone 
Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.     Neighbor'd  close 
Oceanus,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 
Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 
In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 
Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sight ; 
No  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 
Thick  night  confines  the  pine-tops  with  the  clouds ; 
And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 
For  when  the  muse's  wings  are  air-ward  spread, 
"^^^ho  shall  delay  her  flight }    And  she  must  chant 

.  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  had  climb'd 
vVith  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 
More  horrid  still.     Above  a  sombre  cliff 
Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 
Till  on  the  level  height  their  step^  found  ease : 
Then  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembling  arms 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain, 
And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face  : 
There  saw  she  direst  strife;  the  supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge, 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain  ;  for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison  :  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 


HYPERION.  215 


As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst. 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  him,  at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 
"  Titans,  behold  your  God  !  "  at  which  some  groan'd; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd — all  bow'd  with  reverence ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan, 
Her  eyebrows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign. 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thought. 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with  pomp  : 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain'd  world 
No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here. 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short, 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up  : — *•  Not  in  my  own  sad  breast, 
Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days.. 


2l6  HYPERION. 


Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 

Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 

Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 

Low-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom  ; 

And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 

For  my  firm-based  footstool  ; — Ah,  infirm  ! 

Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 

Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 

At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 

One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all, 

Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 

As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain-floods 

Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against  earth's  face, 

Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 

Unhinges  the  poor  world  ; — not  in  that  strife, 

Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 

No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 

And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 

Even  to  swooning,  why  ye.  Divinities, 

The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 

Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison, 

Is  untremendous  might.     Yet  ye  are  here, 

O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd,  ye  are  here ! 

O  Titans,  shall  I  say  '  Arise  ! ' — Ye  groan  : 

Shall  I  say  '  Crouch  ! ' — Ye  groan.     What  can  I  then  ? 

O  Heaven  wide  !     O  unseen  parent  dear  ! 

What  can  I  }     Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 

How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath  X 

O  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 

Ig  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 

Ponderest  high  and  deep  ;  and  in  thy  face 


HYPERION.  217 


I  see  astonied,  that  severe  content 

Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing  :  give  us  help ! " 

So  ended  Saturn  ;  and  the  God  of  the  Sea, 
Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began, 
Inmurmurs,  which  his  first  endeavoring  tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far-foamed  sands. 
*'  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  !  who,  passion-stung, 
Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies  ! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears. 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  proof 
How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop : 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 
Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.     Great  Saturn,  thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe ; 
But  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King, 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy. 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
Through  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers, 
So  art  thou  not  the  last  ;  it  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 
From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,  the  first  fruits  of  that  intestine  broil. 
That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous  ends 
Was  ripening  in  itself.     The  ripe  hour  came, 
And  with  it  light,  and  light  engendering 


2l8  HYPERION. 


Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch'd 

The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 

Upon  that  very  hour,  of  parentage, 

The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest : 

Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race, 

Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms. 

Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  'tis  pain; 

O  folly !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 

And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 

That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty      Mark  well  ! 

As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 

Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs  ; 

And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 

In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful, 

In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 

And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life ; 

So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 

A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 

And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 

In  glory  that  old  Darkness  :  nor  are  we 

Thereby  more  conquer'd  than  by  us  the  rule 

Of  shapeless  Chaos.     Say,  doth  the  dull  soil 

Quarrel  with  the  proud  forest  it  hath  fed, 

And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself  ? 

Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves  ? 

Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 

Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 

To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys  ? 

We  are  such  forest  trees,  and  our  fair  boughs 

Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 

But  eagles  golden-feather'd,  who  do  tower 

Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 


HYPERION.  219 


In  right  thereof ;  for^is  the  eternal  law 
That£rsMjiJ)eauty  shouldhefir^in  might : 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
My  dispossessor  ?     Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 
By  noble  winged  creatures  he  hath  made  ? 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire  :  farewell  sad  I  took, 
And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye  ;  and  how  I  might  best 
Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm." 

Whether  through  pozed  conviction,  or  disdain 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can  tell  ? 
But  so  it  was,  none  answer'd  for  a  space, 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene : 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd, 
With  hectic  lips,  and  eyes  up-looking  mild, 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce  :        * 
"O  Father!  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice. 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone. 
And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our  hearts. 
There  to  remain  forever,  as  I  fear  : 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 
So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 
Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty  Gods; 


220  HYPERION. 


Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 
Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep, 
And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 
I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore. 
Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 
Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers. 
Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief ; 
Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth  ; 
So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 
To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 
With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes ; 
And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 
And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody — 

0  melody  no  more  I  for  while  I  sang. 
And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea. 

There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind 
That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand. 
And  a  wave  fill'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  filled 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes, 

That  fell  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once, 

Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from  their  string; 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain. 

Each  Hke  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch. 

With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes, 

To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  sick 

Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.     Grief  overcame. 

And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears, 


HYPERION.  221 


When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  hands, 
A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune, 
And  still  it  cried,  '  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  ! 
The  morning-bright  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  ! 
I  fled,  it  follow'd  me,  and  cried  *  Apollo! ' 
O  Father,  and  O  Brethren  !  had  ye  felt 
Those  pains  of  mine  !    O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt, 
Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be  heard  !  '* 

So  far  her  voice  fiowM  on,  like  timorous  brook 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast. 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea  :  but  see  it  met, 
And  shudder'd  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  husre  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks. 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd  ;  not  rising,  from  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ? 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were  spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled, 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak  !  roar  !  shout !  yell !  ye  sleepy  Titans  all 
Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?     What  !  have  I  roused 
Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as  these  ? 


222  HYPERION. 


O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost : 

O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 

Wide  glaring  for  revenge."— As  this  he  said, 

He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 

Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 

"  Now  ye  are  flames,  I'll  tell  you  how  to  burn, 

And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies  ; 

How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire, 

And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 

Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 

O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done ; 

For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 

Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of  realms : 

The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm  are  fled  ; 

Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 

When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 

Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak  : — 

That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to  frov/n, 

Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds; 

That  was  before  we  knew  the  winged  thing, 

Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 

And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 

Our  brightest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced — 

Hyperion  lo  !  his  radiance  is  here  !  " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Fiew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself.     He  look'd  upon  them  all, 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light, 


HYPER  102^.  223 

But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 

Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 

When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 

In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd, 

Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  like  the  morn, 

Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 

All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 

And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 

And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth. 

Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented  streams : 

And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts. 

And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 

Mantled  before  in  darkness  and  huge  shade, 

Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 

It  was  Hyperion  : — a  granite  peak 

His  bright  feet  touched,  and  there  he  stay'd  to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 

To  the  most  hateful  seemg  of  itself. 

Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 

Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 

In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East : 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp, 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands,  contemplative. 

He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 

Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 

At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 

And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their  glare, 

Uprose  lapetus,  and  Creiis  too, 


224  HYPERION. 

And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 

To  where  he  tower'd  on  his  eminence. 

There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's ^name ; 

Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answer'd,  "  Saturn  !** 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  "  Saturn  I " 


BOOK  III. 


Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse  !     O  leave  them  to  their  woes! 

For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults  dire : 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 

Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief. 

Leave  them,  O  Muse!  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 

Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 

Wandering  in  vain  about  bewilder'd  shores. 

Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp, 

And  not  a  wind  of  Heaven  but  will  breathe 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute ; 

For  lo !  'tis  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 

Flush  everything  that  hath  a  vermeil  hue, 

Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air. 

And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 

Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills  ; 

Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil. 

Cold  as  a  bubbling  well  ;  let  faint-lipp'd  shells, 

On  sands  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 


HYPERION.  22$ 


Through  all  their  labyrinths  ;  and  let  the  maid 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 

Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green, 

And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beechp 

In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song. 

And  hazels  thick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath  the  shade: 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme ! 

Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 

Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers  ? 

Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 

And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 

And  in  the  morning  twilight  wander'd  forth 

Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet. 

Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 

The  nightingale  had  ceased,  and  a  few  stars 

Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the  thrush 

Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the  isle 

There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 

Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves. 

Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 

He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 

Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 

Thus  with  half-shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood. 

While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  bou^^hs  hard  bv 

With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came. 

And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him, 

Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 

Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said  : 

"  How  camest  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  .^ 

Or  hath  that  antique  mien  and  robed  form 

Moved  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  } 


226  HYPER  10,'^ 


Sure  1  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 

The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 

In  cool  mid  forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 

The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 

These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 

Lift  up  their  heads,  as  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 

Goddess  !  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 

And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 

Or  I  have  dream'd." — "  Yes,"  said  the  supreme  shapCj 

"Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me  ;  and  awaking  up 

Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 

Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  vast 

Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 

Listen'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 

Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.     Is't  not  strange 

That  thou  shouldst  weep,  so  gifted  }     Tell  me,  youth. 

What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  am  sad 

When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear  :  explain  thy  griefs 

To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 

The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 

From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 

Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 

Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 

Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power. 

Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 

For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 

Of  loveliness  new-born." — Apollo  then, 

With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes, 

Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious  throat 

Throbb'd  with  the  syllables  : — "  Mnemosyne  ! 

Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not  how ; 

Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 


HYPERION.  22'; 


Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from  thy  lips 

Would  come  no  mystery  ?     For  me,  dark,  dark, 

And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  ; 

I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 

Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs  ; 

And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan, 

Like  one  who  once  had  wings. — O  why  should  I 

Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  air 

Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  I 

Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet  ? 

Goddess  benign  !    point  forth  some  unknown  thing  : 

Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 

What  are  the  stars  ?     There  is  the  sun,  the  sun  ' 

And  the  mast  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon  ! 

And  stars  by  thousands  !     Point  me  out  the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 

And  I  will  flit  into  it  with  my  lyre. 

And  make  its  silvery  splendor  pant  with  bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder  :     Where  is  power  ? 

Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 

Makes  this  alarm  in  the  elements. 

While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 

In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance  ? 

O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess  !  by  thy  harp, 

That  waileth  every  morn  and  eventide, 

Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these  groves ! 

Mute  thou  remainest — Mute  ?  yet  I  can  read 

A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 

Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 

Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions, 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 

Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 


228  HYPERION. 


Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 

And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 

Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk, 

And  so  become  immortal." — Thus  the  God, 

While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  steadfast  kept 

Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 

Soon  wild  commotions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs  : 

Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death ; 

Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 

Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 

As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd  ; 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At  length 

Apollo  shriek'd  ; — and  lo!  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial  ♦  *  *  * 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  229 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty  ! 

Fate  of  the  B  utter Jly.-^^VErt^TLSi. 


DEDICATION. 

TO    LEIGH    HUNT,    ESQ. 

Glory  and  Loveliness  have  pass'd  away ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smiling  day  : 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voiced  and  young  and  gay, 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these. 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like  thee. 


230  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

IMITATION  OF  SPENSER. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Now  morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant  hill: 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame, 
Silvering  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill  ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distil, 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers, 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers. 

There  the  kingfisher  saw  his  plumage  bright, 
Vying  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  ; 
Whose  silken  fins'  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow : 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow, 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty  : 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes  ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye : 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters  ;  or  as  when  on  high, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  coerulean 
sky. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  231 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
Which,  as  it  .vere  in  gentle  amity, 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side  ; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears  it  tried, 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem  ! 
Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvying  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth  I 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 


232  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night. 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  233 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thoi:  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 

Adieu  !    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 


234  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness ! 

Thou  foster-child  of -Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf -fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  what  maidens  loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss,  -y 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve  ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  235 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu  ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead   and  a    arching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forevermorc 

Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'.r  return. 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !  with  bredc. 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— thatis  aH 

ye jcnow  on  earth^^and  aPj^e  need  to  know^ 


230  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO    AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells* 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
\       Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  237 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn : 
Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY. 

No,  no  !  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud  ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose. 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies  ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 


238  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous 
^tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate^ne  ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


STANZAS. 


In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them. 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  brook, 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look  ; 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 

They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 

Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  239 


Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


Qjg-       *       *       *       ♦ 

Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so ; — 

Give  ijt_not  a  tear  ; 
Sigh  thou  mayst,  and  bid  it  go 

Any — any  where. 

Do  not  look  so  sad,  sweet  one, — 

Sad  and  fadingly  ; 
Shed  one  drop  then — it  is  gone — - 

Oh  !  'twas  born  to  die ! 

Still  so  pale  ?  then  dearest  weep  \ 
Weep,  I'll  count  the  tears, 

And  each  one  shall  be  a  bliss 
For  thee  in  after  years. 

Brighter  has  it  left  thine  eyes 

Than  a  sunny  rill  ; 
And  thy  whispering  melodies 

Are  tenderer  still. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Yet — as  all  things  mourn  awhile 

At  fleeting  blisses ; 
Let  us  too  ;  but  be  our  dirge 

A  dirge  of  kisses. 
1817. 


LA   BELLE   DAME    SANS    MERCL 

ft  BALLAD. 
I. 

O  WHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
♦And  no  birds  sing. 

II. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

III. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

IV. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  241 

V. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  ; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 


VI. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 
For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 

A  faery's  song. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — ' 

"  I  love  thee  true." 

VIII.  (, 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore. 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 


IX. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep. 

And  there  I  dream'd — Ah  !  woe  betide 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 
16 


345  MI^ELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

X. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

They  cried — "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !  " 


XL 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 

On  the  cold  hill's  side.  ^ 

XII. 

And  is  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Arone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake^ 

And  no  birds  sing. 
1819. 


THE   EVE   OF   SAINT   MARK. 

(unfinished.) 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell  ; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell. 
That  call'd  the  folk  to  evening  prayer ; 
The  city  streets  were  clean  and  fair 
From  wholesome  drench  of  April  rains; 
And,  on  the  western  window  panes, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  243 

The  chilly  sunset  faintly  told 
Of  unmatured  green,  valley  cold, 
Of  the  green  thorny  bloomless  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  with  spring-tide  sedge, 
Of  primroses  by  shelter'd  rills, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell : 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  pious  companies, 
Warm  from  their  fire-side  orat'ries  ; 
And  moving,  with  demurest  air, 
To  even-song,  and  vesper  prayer. 
Each  arched  porch,  and  entry  low. 
Was  fill'd  with  patient  folk  and  slow. 
With  whispers  hush,  and  shuflfling  feet, 
While  play'd  the  organ  loud  and  sweet. 
The  bells  had  ceased,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  had  not  yet  half  done 
A  curious  volume,  patch'd  and  torn. 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  eyes. 
Among  its  golden  broideries  ; 
Perplexed  her  with  a  thousand  things. 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings, 
Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze, 
Azure  saints  and  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 
And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 
With  its  many  mysteries. 
Cherubim  and  golden  mice. 


«44  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 
Dwelling  in  th'  old  minster-square ; 
From  her  fire-side  she  could  see, 
Sidelong,  its  rich  antiquity, 
Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall ; 
Where  sycamores  and  elm-trees  tall. 
Full-leaved,  the  forest  had  outstript. 
By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt, 
So  sheltered  by  the  mighty  pile. 
Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhile,. 
With  forehead  'gainst  the  window-panfc 
Again  she  tried,  and  then  again, 
Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  dark 
Upon  the  legend  of  St.  Mark. 
From  plaited  lawn-frill,  fine  and  thin, 
She  lifted  up  her  soft  warm  chin. 
With  aching  neck  and  swimming  eyes, 
And  dazed  with  saintly  imag'ries. 

All  was  gloom,  and  silent  all, 
Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 
Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 
Past  the  echoing  minster-gate. 
The  clamorous  daws,  that  all  the  day 
Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play, 
Pair  by  pair  had  gone  to  rest, 
Each  in  its  ancient  belfry-nest, 
Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes, 
To  music  and  the  drowsy  chimes. 

All  was  silent,  all  was  gloom. 
Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  245 

Down  she  sat,  pooi  cheated  soul ! 

And  struck  a  lamp  from  the  dismal  coal ; 

Leaned  forward,  with  bright  drooping  hair 

And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare. 

Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 

Hover'd  about,  a  giant  size, 

On  ceiling-beam  and  old  oak  chair, 

The  parrot's  cage,  and  panel  square; 

And  the  warm  angled  winter-screen, 

On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 

Call'd  doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice, 

And  legless  birds  of  Paradise, 

Macaw,  and  tender  Av'davat, 

And  silken-furr'd  Angora  cat. 

Untired  she  read,  her  shadow  still 

Glower'd  about,  as  it  would  fill 

The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades, 

As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 

Had  come  to  mock  behind  her  back. 

And  dance,  and  ruffle  her  garments  black. 

Untired  she  read  the  legend  page, 

Of  holy  Mark,  from  youth  to  age, 

On  land,  on  sea,  in  pagan  chains. 

Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 

Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 

With  golden  star,  or  dagger  bright, 

Referred  to  pious  poesies 

Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 

Beneath  the  text ;  and  thus  the  rhyme 

Was  parcell'd  out  from  time  to  time : 

"  Als  writith  he  of  swevenis, 

Men  han  beforne  they  wake  in  bliss, 


246  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Whanne  that  hir  friendes  thinke  him  bound 
In  crimped  shroude  farre  under  grounde  ; 
And  how  a  litling  child  mote  be 
A  saint  er  its  nativitie, 
Gif  that  the  modre  (God  her  blesse  !) 
Kepen  in  solitarinesse, 
And  kissen  devoute  the  holy  croce 
Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan's  force, — 
He  writith  ;  and  thinges  many  mo 
Of  swiche  thinges  I  may  not  shew. 
Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 
Somdel  of  Sainte  Cicilie, 
And  chieflie  what  he  auctorethe 
Of  Sainte  Markis  life  and  dethe :  " 
At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 
Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom  ; 
Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine 
Exalt  amid  the  taper's  shine 
At  Venice, — 
1819. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  f 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  247 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ;       ^ 
iOr  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes  I      ^ 
X  He_stared  at^he  Pacific — and  ail  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF   LEANDER. 

Come  hither,'  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 

Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light, 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white, 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 

Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea  : 
'Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death  ; 

Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary  lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 

O  horrid  dream  !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile  : 
He's  gone;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath! 


ON    A    DREAM. 


As  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light, 
When  lulled  Argus,  baffled,  swoon'd  and  slept. 

So  on  a  Delphic  reed,  my-idle  spright. 

So  play'd,  so  charm'd,  so  conquer'd,  so  bereft 


248  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  dragon-world  of  all  its  hundred  eyes. 

And  seeing  it  asleep,  so  fled  away, 
Not  to  pure  Ida  with  its  snow-cold  skies, 

Nor  unto  Tempe,  where  Jove  grieved  a  day, 
But  to  that  second  circle  of  sad  Hell, 

Where  in  the  gust,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  flaw 
Of  rain  and  hail-stones,  lovers  need  not  tell 

Their  sorrows, — pale  were  the  sweet  lips  I  saw, 
Pale  were  the  lips  I  kiss'd,  and  fair  the  form 
I  floated  with,  about  that  melancholy  storm. 


THE  DAY    IS   GONE. 

The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone  ! 

Sweet  voice,  sweet  lips,  soft  hand,  and  softer  breast. 
Warm  breath,  light  whisper,  tender  semi-tone. 

Bright    eyes,   accomplish'd   shape,   and    lang'rous 
waist ! 
Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms, 

Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes, 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms, 

Faded  the  voice,  warmth,  whiteness,  paradise — 
Vanished  unseasonably  at  shut  of  eve. 

When  the  dusk  holiday — or  holinight 
Of  fragrant-curtain'd  love  begins  to  weave 

The  woof  of  darkness  thick,  for  hid  delight ; 
But,  as  I've  read  love's  missal  through  to-day, 
He'll  let  me  sleep,  seeing  I  fast  and  pray. 
X819. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  249 

KEATS'S  LAST  SONNET. 

Bri<5HT  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art 

Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shore 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 

Awake  forev^er  in  a  sweet  unrest. 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath. 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death.* 


TO   SPENSER.t 


Spenser  !  a  jealous  honorer  of  thine, 

A  forester  deep  in  thy  midmost  trees. 

Did,  last  eve,  ask  my  promise  to  refine 

Some  English,  that  might  strive  thine  ear  to  please. 

But,  Elfin-poet  !  'tis  impossible 

For  an  inhabitant  of  wintry  earth 

To  rise,  like  Phoebus,  with  a  golden  quill. 

Fire-winged,  and  make  a  morning  in  his  mirth. 

•  Another  reading  : — 

Half-passionless,  and  so  swoon  on  to  death, 
t  From  this  point  onwards,  the  poems  printed  in  the  present  volume  had  not 
hitherto  appeared  in  any  of  the  editions  of  Keats's  works. 


850  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


It  is  impossible  to  'scape  from  toil 
O'  the  sudden,  and  receive  thy  spiriting  : 
The  flower  must  drink  the  nature  of  the  soil 
Before  it  can  put  forth  its  blossoming : 
Be  with  me  in  the  summer  days,  and  I 
Will  for  thine  honor  and  his  pleasure  try. 


TO    CHATTERTON. 

O  Chatterton  !  how  very  sad  thy  fate ! 
Dear  child  of  sorrow — son  of  misery  ! 
How  soon  the  film  of  death  obscured  that  eye, 
Whence  Genius  mildly  flashed,  and  high  debate. 
How  soon  that  voice,  majestic  and  elate. 
Melted  in  dying  numbers  !     Oh  !  how  nigh 
Was  night  to  thy  fair  morning.     Thou  didst  die 
A  half-blown  fiow'ret  which  cold  blasts  amate. 
But  this  is  past :  thou  art  among  the  stars 
Of  highest  Heaven  :  to  the  rolling  spheres 
Thou  sweetly  singest :  nought  thy  hymning  mars. 
Above  the  ingrate  world  and  human  fears. 
On  earth  the  good  man  base  detraction  bars 
From  thy  fair  name,  and  waters  it  with  tears. 


TO   BYRON. 


Byron  I  how  sweetly  sad  thy  melody ! 
Attuning  still  the  soul  to  tenderness, 
As  if  soft  Pity,  with  unusual  stress. 


M ISC  EL  LANEOUS  POEMS.  251 

Had  touched  her  plaintive  lute,  and  thou,  being  by, 

Hadst  caught  the  tones,  nor  suffered  them  to  die. 

O'ershading  sorrow  doth  not  make  thee  less 

Delightful  :  thou  thy  griefs  dost  dress 

With  a  bright  halo,  shining  beamily, 

As  when  a  cloud  the  golden  moon  doth  veil, 

Its  sides  are  tinged  with  a  resplendent  glow. 

Through  the  dark  robe  oft  amber  rays  prevail, 

And  like  fair  veins  in  sable  marble  flow ; 

Still  warble,  dying  swan  !  still  tell  the  tale, 

The  enchanting  tale,  the  tale  of  pleasing  woe. 


ON  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES. 

My  spirit  is  too  weak  ;  mortality 

Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep, 

And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 

Yet  'tis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep, 

That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain, 

Bring  round  the  heart  an  indescribable  feud  ; 
So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain, 

That  mingles  Grecian  grandeur  with  the  rude 
Wasting  of  old  Time — with  a  billowy  main, 

A  sun,  a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

TO  HAYDON, 

ENCLOSING  THE  PRECEDING  SONNET. 

Haydon  !  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak 

Definitely  of  these  mighty  things  ; 

Forgive  me,  that  I  have  not  eagle's  wings, 
That  what  I  want  I  know  not  where  to  seek. 
And  think  that  I  would  not  be  over-meek, 

In  rolling  out  upfollowed  thunderings, 

Even  to  the  steep  of  Heliconian  springs, 
Were  I  of  ample  strength  for  such  a  freak. 
Think,  too,  that  all  these  numbers  should  be  thine ; 

Whose  else  ?     In  this  who  touch  thy  vesture's  hem  ? 
For,  when  men  stared  at  what  was  most  divine 

With  brainless  idiotism  and  o'erwise  phlegm, 
Thou  hadst  beheld  the  full  Hesperian  shine 

Of  their  star  in  the  east,  and  gone  to  worship  them ! 


SONNET. 


["  I  was  led  into  these  thoughts,  my  dear  Reynolds,  by  the  beauty  of  the 
morning  operating  on  a  sense  of  idleness.  I  have  not  read  any  books — the 
morning  said  I  was  right — I  had  no  idea  but  of  the  morning,  and  the  thrush  said 
I  was  right — seeming  to  say,"] 

O  THOU !  whose  face  hath  felt  the  Winter's  wind, 
Whose  eye  hath  seen  the  snow-clouds  hung  in  mist, 
And  the  black  elm-tops  among  the  freezing  stars 
To  thee  the  Spring  will  be  a  harvest-time. 
O  thou,  whose  only  book  hath  been  the  light 
Of  supreme  darkness,  which  thou  feddest  on 
Night  after  night,  when  Phoebus  was  away. 
To  thee  the  Spring  shall  be  a  triple  morn. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  253 

O  fret  not  after  knowledge ! — I  have  none, 
And  yet  my  song  comes  native  with  the  warmth. 
O  fret  not  after  knowledge  ! — I  have  none, 
And  yet  the  Evening  listens.     He  who  saddens 
At  thought  of  idleness  cannot  be  idle, 
And  he's  awake  who  thinks  himself  asleep. 


WRITTEN  BEFORE  RE-READING  KING  LEAR. 

O  GOLDEN-TONGUED  Romance  with  serene  lute ! 

Fair  plumed  Syren  !  Queen  !  if  far  away ! 

Leave  melodizing  on  this  wintry  day, 
Shut  up  thine  olden  volume,  and  be  mute. 
Adieu  !  for  once  again  the  fierce  dispute, 

Betwixt  Hell  torment  and  impassioned  clay 

Must  I  burn  through  ;  once  more  assay 
The  bitter  sweet  of  this  Shakespearian  fruit 
Chief  Poet !  and  ye  clouds  of  Albion, 

Begetters  of  our  deep  eternal  theme, 
•  When  I  am  through  the  old  oak  forest  gone 

Let  me  not  wander  in  a  barren  dream, 
But  when  I  am  consumed  with  the  Fire, 
Give  me  new  Phoenix-wings  to  fly  at  my  desire. 


TO   THE   NILE. 


Son  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African ! 
Stream  of  the  Pyramid  and  Crocodile  ! 
We  call  thee  fruitful,  and  that  very  while 
A  desert  fills  our  seeing's  inward  span : 


254  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Nurse  of  swart  nations  since  the  world  began 
Art  thou  so  fruitful  ?  or  dost  thou  besruile 

o 

Those  men  to  honor  thee,^who,  worn  with  toil, 
Rest  them  a  space  'twixt  Cairo  and  Decan  ? 
O  may  dark  fancies  err  !     They  surely  do  ; 
'Tis  ignorance  that  makes  a  barren  waste 
Of  all  beyond  itself.     Thou  dost  bedew 
Green  rushes  like  our  rivers,  and  dost  taste 
The  pleasant  sun-rise.     Green  isles  hast  thou  too, 
And  to  the  sea  as  happily  dost  haste. 


ON   VISITING   THE   TOMB    OF    BURNS. 

The  town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting  sun, 
The  clouds,  the  trees,  the  rounded  hills  all  seem, 
Though  beautiful,  cold — strange — as  in  a  dream, 
I  dreamed  long  ago,  now  new  begun. 
The  short-lived,  paly,  Summer  is  but  won 
From  Winter's  ague,  for  one  hour's  gleam  ; 
Though  sapphire-warm,  their  stars  do  never  beam: 
All  is  cold  Beauty  ;  pain  is  never  done  : 
For  who  has  mind  to  relish,  Minos-wise, 
The  Real  of  Beauty,  free  from  that  dead  hue 
Sickly  imagination  and  sick  pride 
Cast  wan  upon  it !     Burns  !  with  honor  due 
I  oft  have  honor'd  thee.     Great  shadow,  hide 
Thy  face ;  I  sin  against  thy  native  skies. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  255 

TO    BURNS. 
(written  in  the  cottage  where  he  was  born^ 

This  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days 

Now  fills,  O  Burns,  a  space  in  thine  own  room, 

Where  thou  didst  dream  alone  on  budded  bays, 

Happy  and  thoughtless  of  thy  day  of  doom ! 

My  pulse  is  warm  with  thine  own  Barley-bree, 

My  head  is  light  with  pledging  a  great  soul, 

My  eyes  are  wandering,  and  I  cannot  see, 

Fancy  is  dead  and  drunken  at  its  goal  ; 

Yet  can  I  stamp  my  foot  upon  thy  floor, 

Yet  can  I  ope  thy  window-sash  to  find 

The  meadow  thou  hast  tramped  o'er  and  o'er, — 

Yet  can  I  think  of  thee  till  thought  is  blind, — 

Yet  can  I  gulp  a  bumper  to  thy  name, — 

O  smile  among  the  shades,  for  this  is  fame ! 


BEN    NEVIS. 


Read  me  a  lesson.  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud 
Upon  the  top  of  Nevis,  blind  in  mist ! 
I  look  into  the  chasms,  and  a  shroud 
Vaporous  doth  hide  them, — just  so  much  I  wist 
Mankind  do  kno>v  of  hell ;  I  look  o'erhead, 
And  there  is  sullen  mist,  even  so  much 
Mankind  can  tell  of  heaven  ;  mist  is  spread 
Before  the  earth,  beneath  me, — even  such, 
Even  so  vague  is  man's  sight  of  himself  I 


256  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Here  are  the  craggy  stones  beneath  my  feet, — 
Thus  much  I  know  that,  a  poor  witless  elf, 
I  tread  on  them, — that  all  my  eye  doth  meet 
Is  mist  and  crag,  not  only  on  this  height, 
But  in  the  world  of  thought  and  mental  night  \ 


FROM  RONSARD. 


FRAGMENT   OF  A   SONNET. 


Nature  withheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies, 
For  more  adornment,  a  full  thousand  years  ; 
She  took  their  cream  of  Beauty,  fairest  dies, 
And  shaped  and  tinted  her  above  all  Peers : 
Meanwhile  Love  kept  her  dearly  with  his  wings, 
And  underneath  their  shadow  filled  her  eyes 
With  such  a  richness  that  the  cloudy  Kings 
Of  high  Olympus  uttered  slavish  sighs. 
When  from  the  Heavens  I  saw  her  first  descend, 
My  heart  took  fire,  and  only  burning  pains, 
They  were  my  pleasures — they  my  Life's  sad  end  ; 
Love  poured  her  beauty  into  my  warm  veins. 


ON  SEEING  A  LOCK  OF  MILTON'S  HAIR. 

Chief  of  organic  numbers  ! 
Old  Scholar  of  the  Spheres ! 
Thy  spirit  never  slumbers, 
But  rolls  about  our  ears 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  257 

Forever  and  forever  ! 
O  what  a  mad  endeavor 

Worketh  He, 
Who  to  thy  sacred  and  ennobled  hearse 
Would  offer  a  burnt  sacrifice  of  verse 

And  melody. 

How  heaven-ward  thou  soundest ! 
Live  Temple  of  sweet  noise, 
And  Discord  unconfoundest, 
Giving  Delight  new  joys. 
And  Pleasure  nobler  pinions  ; 
O  where  are  thy  dominions  ? 

Lend  thine  ear 
To  a  young  Delian  oath — aye,  by  thy  soul, 
By  all  that  from  thy  mortal  lips  did  roll. 
And  by  the  kernel  of  thy  earthly  love, 
Beauty  in  things  on  earth  and  things  above. 
I  swear  ! 

When  every  childish  fashion 

Has  vanished  from  my  rhyme, 

Will  I,  gray  gone  in  passion, 

Leave  to  an  after-time. 

Hymning  and  Harmony 
Of  thee  and  of  thy  works,  and  of  thy  life  ; 
But  vain  is  now  the  burning  and  the  strife; 
Pangs  are  in  vain,  until  I  grow  high-rife 

With  old  Philosophy, 
And  wed  with  glimpses  of  futurity. 

For  many  years  my  offerings  must  be  hush'd ; 
When  I  do  speak,  I'll  think  upon  this  hour, 

17 


?58  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Because  I  feel  my  forehead  hot  and  flushed, 
Even  at  the  simplest  vassal  of  my  power, 

A  lock  of  thy  bright  hair, — 

Sudden  it  came. 
And  I  was  startled  when  I  caught  thy  name 

Coupled  so  unaware ; 
Yet  at  the  moment  temperate  was  thy  blood- 
I  thought  I  had  beheld  it  from  the  flood ! 


REMINISCENCE  OF  CLAUDE'S  ENCHANTED 

CASTLE. 

TO  JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS. 

Dear  Reynolds  !  as  last  night  I  lay  in  bed, 
There  came  before  my  eyes  that  wonted  thread 
Of  shapes  and  shadows,  and  remembrances. 
That  every  other  minute  vex  and  please  : 
Things  all  disjointed  come  from  north  and  south, — 
Two  Witch's  eyes  above  a  Cherub's  mouth, 
Voltaire  with  casque  and  shield  and  habergeon, 
And  Alexander  with  his  night-cap  on  ; 
Old  Socrates  a  tying  his  cravat. 
And  Hazlitt  playing  with  Miss  Edgeworth's  Cat ; 
And  Junius  Brutus,  pretty  well,  so  so. 
Making  the  best  of's  way  towards  Soho. 

Few  are  there  who  escape  these  visitings,— 
Perhaps  one  or  two  whose  lives  have  patent  wings, 
And  thro'  whose  curtains  peeps  no  hellish  nose, 
No  wild-boar  tushes,  and  no  Mermaid's  toes ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  259 


But  flowers  bursting  out  with  lusty  pride, 

And  young  iColian  harps  personified  ; 

Some  Titian  colors  touched  into  real  life, — 

The  sacrifice  goes  on  ;  the  pontif  knife 

Gleams  in  the  Sun,  the  milk-white  heifer  lows, 

The  pipes  go  shrilly,  the  libation  flows  : 

A  white  sail  shows  above  the  green-head  cliff, 

Moves  round  the  point,  and  throws  her  anchor  stiff ; 

The  mariners  join  hymn  with  those  on  land. 

You  know  the  Enchanted  Castle, — it  doth  stand 
Upon  a  rock,  on  the  border  of  a  Lake, 
Nested  in  trees,  which  all  do  seem  to  shake 
From  some  old  magic-like  Urganda's  Sword. 
O  Phoebus  !  that  I  had  thy  sacred  word 
To  show  this  Castle,  in  fair  dreaming  wise, 
Unto  my  friend,  while  sick  and  ill  he  lies  ! 

You  know  it  well  enough,  where  it  doth  seem 
A  mossy  place,  a  Merlin's  Hall,  a  dream ; 
You  know  the  clear  Lake,  and  the  little  Isles, 
The  mountains  blue,  and  cold  near  neighbor  rills, 
All  which  elsewhere  are  but  half  animate  ; 
There  do  they  look  alive  to  love  and  hate. 
To  smiles  and  frowns ;  they  seem  a  lifted  mound 
Above  some  giant,  pulsing  underground. 

Part  of  the  Building  was  a  chosen  See, 
Built  by  a  banished  Santon  of  Chaldee  ; 
The  other  part,  two  thousand  years  from  him. 
Was  built  by  Cuthbert  de  Saint  Aldebrim  ; 


26o  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Then  there's  a  little  wing,  far  from  the  Sun, 
Built  by  a  Lapland  Witch  turn'd  maudlin  Nun  ; 
And  many  other  juts  of  aged  stone 
Founded  with  many  a  mason-devil's  groan. 

The  doors  all  look  as  if  they  oped  themselves, 
The  windows  as  if  latched  by  Fays  and  Elves, 
And  from  them  comes  a  silver  flash  of  light, 
As  from  the  westward  of  a  Summer's  night ; 
Or  like  a  beauteous  woman's  large  blue  eyes 
Gone  mad  through  olden  songs  and  poesies. 

See  !  what  is  coming  from  the  distance  dim  ! 
A  golden  Galley  all  in  silken  trim  ! 
Three  rows  of  oars  are  lightening,  moment  whiles, 
Into  the  verd'rous  bosoms  of  those  isles  ; 
Towards  the  shade,  under  the  Castle  wall. 
It  comes  in  silence, — now  'tis  hidden  all. 
The  Clarion  sounds,  and  from  a  Postern-gate 
An  echo  of  sweet  music  doth  create 
A  fear  in  the  poor  Herdsman,  who  doth  bring 
His  beasts  to  trouble  the  enchanted  spring, — 
He  tells  of  the  sweet  music,  and  the  spot, 
To  aP  his  friends,  and  they  believe  him  not. 

Oh,  that  our  dreamings  all,  of  sleep  or  wake, 
Would  all  their  colors  from  the  sunset  take  : 
From  something  of  material  sublime, 
Rather  than  shadow  our  own  soul's  day-time 
In  the  dark  void  of  night.     For  in  the  world 
We  jostle, — but  my  flag  is  not  unfurl'd 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  261 

On  the  Admiral-staff, — and  to  philosophize 
I  dare  not  yet !     Oh,  never  will  the  prize, 
High  reason,  and  the  love  of  good  and  ill, 
Be  my  award  !     Things  cannot  to  the  will 
Be  settled,  but  they  tease  us  out  of  thought ; 
Or  is  it  that  imagination  brought 
Beyond  its  proper  bound,  yet  still  confined, 
Lost  in  a  sort  of  Purgatory  blind. 
Cannot  refer  to  any  standard  law 
Of  either  earth  or  heaven  ?     It  is  a  flaw 
In  happiness,  to  see  beyond  our  bourn, — 
It  forces  us  in  summer  skies  to  mourn, 
It  spoils  the  singing  of  the  Nightingale. 


Dear  Reynolds  !     I  have  a  mysterious  tale. 
And  cannot  speak  it :  the  first  page  I  read 
Upon  a  Lampit  rock  of  green  sea-weed 
Among  the  breakers  ;  'twas  a  quiet  eve. 
The  rocks  were  silent,  the  wide  sea  did  weave 
An  untumultuous  fringe  of  silver  foam 
Along  the  flat  brown  sand  ;  I  was  at  home 
And  should  have  been  most  happy, — but  I  saw 
Too  far  into  the  sea,  where  every  maw 
The  greater  on  the  less  feeds  evermore. — 
But  I  saw  too  distinct  into  the  core 
Of  an  eternal  fierce  destruction, 
And  so  from  happiness  I  far  was  gone. 
Still  am  I  sick  of  it,  and  tho',  to-day, 
I've  gather'd  young  spring-leaves,  and  flowers  gay 
Of  periwinkle  and  wild  strawberry, 
Still  do  I  that  most  fierce  destruction  see, — 


262  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Shark   at  savage  prey, — the  Hawk  at  pounce, — 
The  gentle  Robin,  like  a  Parcl  or  Ounce, 
Ravening  a  Worm, — Away,  ye  horrid  moods  ! 
Moods  of  one's  mind  !     You  know  I  hate  them  welL 
You  know  I'd  sooner  be  a  clapping  Bell 
To  some  Kamchatsan  Missionary  Church, 
Than  with  these  horrid  moods  be  left  in  lurch. 


WRITTEN    IN    DEVONSHIRE. 

I. 

Here  all  the  summer  I  could  stay. 
For  there's  a  Bishop's  Teign, 
And  King's  Teign, 

And  Coomb  at  the  clear  Teign's  head ; 
Where,  close  by  the  stream. 
You  may  have  your  cream, 

All  spread  upon  barley  bread. 

II. 

There's  Arch  Brook, 

And  there's  Larch  Brook, — 
Both  turning  many  a  mill ; 

And  cooling  the  drouth 

Of  the  salmon's  mouth, 
And  fattening  his  silver  gill. 

III. 

There's  a  wild  wood, 
A  mild  hood, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  263 


To  the  sheep  on  the  lea  o'  the  down  ; 

Where  the  golden  furze, 

With  its  green,  thin  spurs, 
Doth  catch  at  the  maiden's  gown. 

IV. 

There's  Newton  Marsh, 

With  its  spear-grass  harsh, — 
A  pleasant  summer  level ; 

Where  the  maidens  sweet 

Of  the  Market  street, 
Do  meet  in  the  dark  to  revel. 

V. 

There's  Barton  rich. 

With  dyke  and  ditch. 
Add  hedge  for  the  thrush  to  live  in; 

And  the  hollow  tree, 

For  the  buzzing  bee, 
And  a  bank  for  the  wasp  to  hive  in, 

VI. 

And  O  and  O, 

The  daisies  blow. 
And  the  primroses  are  wakened  ; 

And  the  violets  white 

Sit  in  silver  light. 
And  the  green  buds  are  long  iti  the  spike  end. 

VII. 

Then  who  would  go 
Into  dark  Soho, 


264  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  chatter  with  dank-haired  critics. 
When  he  can  stay 
For  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  startle  the  dappled  crickets  ? 


SONG. 
I. 


Where  be  you  going,  you  Devon  maid  ? 

And  what  have  ye  there  in  the  basket? 
Ye  tight  little  fairy,  just  fresh  from  the  dairy, 

Will  yc  give  me  some  cream  if  I  ask  it  ? 

II. 

1  love  your  hills  and  I  love  your  dales, 
And  I  love  your  flocks  a-bleating ; 

But  oh,  on  the  heather  to  lie  together. 
With  both  our  hearts  a-beating  ! 

III. 
I'll  put  your  basket  all  safe  in  a  nook  ; 

Your  shawl  Til  hang  on  a  willow  ; 
And  we  will  sigh  in  the  daisy's  eye, 

And  kiss  on  a  grass-green  pillow. 


WRITTEN    ON    MAY   DAY. 

Mother  of  Hermes  !  and  still  youthful  Maia ! 

May  I  smg  to  thee 
As  thou  wast  hymned  on  the  shores  of  Baiae  ? 

Or  may  I  woo  thee 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  265 

In  earlier  Sicilian  ?  or  thy  smiles 

Seek  as  they  once  were  sought,  in  Grecian  isles, 

By  bards  who  died  content  on  pleasant  sward^ 

Leaving  great  verse  unto  a  little  clan  ? 

O,  give  me  their  old  vigor,  and  unheard 

Save  of  the  quiet  Primrose,  and  the  span 

Of  heaven  and  few  ears, 
Rounded  by  thee,  my  song  should  die  away 

Content  as  theirs, 
Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day.* 


MEG    MERRILIES. 

Old  Meg  she  was  a  gipsy, 

And  lived  upon  the  moors  : 
Her  bed  it  was  the  brown  heath  turf, 

And  her  house  was  out  of  doors. 
Her  apples  were  swart  blackberries, 

Her  currants,  pods  o'  broom  ; 
Her  wine  was  dew  of  the  wild  white  rose, 

Her  book  a  churchyard  tomb. 

Her  brothers  were  the  craggy  hills. 

Her  sisters  larchen  trees  ; 
Alone  with  her  great  family 

She  lived  as  she  did  please. 
No  breakfast  had  she  many  a  mom, 

No  dinner  many  a  noon. 
And,  'stead  of  supper,  she  would  stare 

Full  hard  against  the  moon. 

♦  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  he  did  not  finish  this  Ode  ;  this  com- 
mencement is  in  his  best  manner :  the  sentiment  and  expression  per- 
fect 


266  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  every  morn,  of  woodbine  fresh 

She  made  her  garlanding, 
And,  every  night,  the  dark  glen  yew 

She  wove,  and  she  would  sing. 
And  with  her  fingers,  old  and  brown. 

She  plaited  mats  of  rushes, 
And  gave  them  to  the  cottagers 

She  met  among  the  bushes. 

Old  Meg  was  brave  as  Margaret  Queen, 

And  tall  as  Amazon  ; 
An  old  red  blanket  cloak  she  wore, 

A  ship-hat  had  she  on  : 
God  rest  her  aged  bones  somewhere! 

She  died  full  long  agone  ! 


WRITTEN  AFTER  VISITING  THE  BIRTHPLACE 

OF  BURNS. 

There  is  a  charm  in  footing  slow  across  a  silent  plain, 
Where  patriot  battle  had  been  fought,  where  glory 

had  the  gain  ; 
There  is  a  pleasure  on  the  heath,  where  Druids  old 

have  been, 
Where  mantles  gray  have  rustled  by,  and  swept  the 

nettled  green  ; 
There  is  a  joy  in  every  spot  made  known  in  times  of 

old,  [told ; 

New  to  the  feet  altho*  each  tale  a  hundred  times  be 
There  is  a  deeper  joy  than  all,  more  solemn  in  the 

heart. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  267 

More  parching  to  the  tongue  than  all,  of  more  divine 

a  smart, 
When  weary  steps  forget  themselves  upon  a  pleasant 

turf, 
Upon  hot  sand,  or  flinty  road,  or  sea-shore  iron  surf, 
Towards  the  castle  or  the  cot,  where  long  ago  was 

born 
One  who  was  great  through  mortal  days,  and  died  of 

fame  unshorn. 

Light  heather-bells  may  tremble  then — but  they  are 
far  away ; 

Wood-lark  may  sing  from  sandy  fern, — the  Sun  may 
hear  his  lay ; 

Runnels  may  kiss  the  grass  on  shelves  and  shallows 
clear, — 

But  their  low  voices  are  not  heard,  tho'  come  on  trav- 
els drear ;  [peaks, 

Blood-red  the  sun  may  set  behind  black  mountain 

Blue  tides  may  sluice  and  drench  their  time  in  caves 
and  weedy  creeks, 

Eagles  may  seem  to  sleep  wing-wide  upon  the  air, 

Ring-doves  may  fly  convulsed  across  to  some  high 
cedared  lair, — 

But  the  forgotten  eye  is  still  fast  lidded  to  the  ground, 

As  Palmer's  that  with  weariness  mid-desert  shrine 
hath  found. 

A  such  a  time  the  soul's  a  child,  in  childhood  is  the 
brain. 

Forgotten  is  the  worldly  heart, — alone  it  beats  in  vain ! 

Ay,  if  a  madman  could  have  leave  to  pass  a  health- 
ful day, 


268  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Tc  tell  his  forehead's  swoon  and  faint,  when  first  be- 
gan decay, 

He  might  make  tremble  many  a  one,  whose  spirit  had 
gone  forth 

To  find  a  Bard's  low  cradle-place  about  the  silent 
north  ! 

Scanty  the  hour,  and  few  the  steps,  beyond  the  bourn 
of  care. 

Beyond  the  sweet  and  bitter  world, — beyond  it  un- 
aware ! 

Scanty  the  hour,  and  few  the  steps, — because  a  longer 
stay  [way ! 

Would  bar  return  and  make  a  man  forget  his   mortal 

O  horrible  !  to  lose  the  sight  of  well-remembered  face. 

Of  Brother's  eyes,  of  Sister's  brow, — constant  to  every 
place, 

Filling  the  air  as  on  we  move  with  portraiture  intense. 

More  warm  than  those  heroic  tints  that  pain  a 
painter's  sense,  [old, 

When  shapes  of  old  come  striding  by,  and  visages  of 

Locks  shining  black,  hair  scanty  gray,  and  passions 
anifold ! 

No,  no, — that  horror  cannot  be!  for  at  the  cable's 

length 
Man  feels  the  gentle  anchor  pull,  and  gladdens  in  its 

strength : 
One  hour,  half  idiot,  he  stands  by  mossy  waterfall. 
But  in  the  very  next  he  reads  his  soul's  memorial ; 
He  reads  it  on  the  mountain's  height,  where  chance 

he  may  sit  down, 
Upon  rough  marble  diadem,  that  hill's  eternal  crown. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  269 

Yet  be  his  anchor  e'er  so  fast,  room  is  there  for    a 

prayer, 
That  man  may  never  lose  his  mind  in  mountains  black 

and  bare ; 

That  he  may  stray,  league  after  league,  some  great 

birthplace  to  find, 
And  keep  his  vision  clear  from  speck,  his  inward  sight 

unblind. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  VISITING  FINGAL'S  CAVE. 

Not  Aladdin  magian 

Ever  such  a  work  began ; 

Not  the  wizard  of  the  Dee 

Ever  such  a  dream  could  see ; 

Not  St.  John,  in  Patmos'  isle, 

In  the  passion  of  his  toil, 

When  he  saw  the  churches  seven, 

Golden-aisled,  built  up  in  heaven, 

Gazed  at  such  a  rugged  wonder, 

As  I  stood  its  roofing  under. 

Lo  !  I  saw  one  sleeping  there, 

On  the  marble  cold  and  bare ; 

While  the  surges  washed  his  feet, 

And  his  garments  white  did  beat 

Drenched  about  the  sombre  rocks  ; 

On  his  neck  his  well-grown  locks, 

Lifted  dry  above  the  main, 

Were  upon  the  curl  again. 

"  What  is  this  ?  and  what  art  thou  }  '* 

Whispered  I,  and  touched  his  brow ; 


27^  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"  What  art  thou  ?  and  what  is  this  ?  " 

Whispered  I,  and  strove  to  kiss 

The  spirit's  hand,  to  wake  his  eyes ; 

Up  he  started  in  a  trice : 

"  I  am  Lycidas,"  said  he, 

"  Fam'd  in  f un'ral  minstrelsy ! 

This  was  architectur'd  thus 

By  the  great  Oceanus  ! — 

Here  his  mighty  waters  play 

Hollow  organs  all  the  day ; 

Here,  by  turns,  his  dolphins  all, 

Finny  palmers,  great  and  small, 

Come  to  pay  devotion  due, — 

Each  a  mouth  of  pearls  must  strew  1 

Many  a  mortal  of  these  days, 

Dares  to  pass  our  sacred  ways ; 

Dares  to  touch,  audaciously; 

This  cathedral  of  the  sea ! 

I  have  been  the  pontiff-priest, 

Where  the  waters  never  rest, 

Where  a  fledgy  sea-bird  choir 

Soars  forever  !     Holy  fire 

I  have  hid  from  mortal  man  ; 

Proteus  is  my  Sacristan  ! 

But  the  dulled  eye  of  mortal 

Hath  passed  beyond  the  rocky  portal ; 

So  forever  will  I  leave 

Such  a  taint,  and  soon  unweave 

All  the  magic  of  the  place." 

So  saying,  with  a  Spirit's  glance 

He  dived ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  27 1 


A    PROPHECY.* 

'Tis  the  witching  hour  of  night, 
Orbed  is  the  moon  and  bright, 
And  the  stars  they  glisten,  glisten, 
Seeming  with  bright  eyes  to  listen — 

For  what  listen  they  ? 
For  a  song  and  for  a  charm. 
See  they  glisten  in  alarm. 
And  the  moon  is  waxino^  warm 

To  her  what  I  shall  say. 
Moon  !  keep  wide  thy  golden  ears — 
Hearken,  stars  !  and  hearken,  spheres  ! — 
Hearken,  thou  eternal  sky  ! 
I  sing  an  infant's  lullaby, 

A  pretty  lullaby. 
Listen,  listen,  listen,  listen, 
Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten. 

And  hear  my  lullaby  ! 
Though  the  rushes  that  will  make 
Its  cradle  still  are  in  the  lake — 
Though  the  linen  that  will  be 
Its  swathe,  is  on  the  cotton  tree — 
Though  the  woollen  that  will  keep 
It  warm,  is  on  the  silly  sheep^ 
Listen,  starlight,  listen,  listen, 
Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten. 

And  hear  my  lullaby. 

*  These  verses  occur  in  a  letter  addressed  by  Keats  on  29th  Octo- 
ber 1818  to  his  brother  George,  then  in  America.  He  says  :  *'  If  I 
had  a  prayer  to  make  for  any  great  good,  next  to  Tom's  recovery,  it 
should  be  that  one  of  your  children  should  be  the  first  American  poet. 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  make  a  prophecy  ;  and  they  say  that  prophecies 
work  out  their  own  fulfilment." 


272  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Child,  I  see  thee  !  Child,  I've  found  thee 

Midst  of  the  quiet  all  around  thee  ! 

Child,  I  see  thee  !  Child,  I  spy  thee ! 

And  thy  mother  sweet  is  nigh  thee! 

Child,  I  know  thee  I     Child  no  more. 

But  a  Poet  evermore ! 

See,  see,  the  lyre,  the  lyre, 

In  a  flame  of  fire. 

Upon  the  little  cradle's  top 

Flaring,  flaring,  flaring, 

Past  the  eyesight's  bearing. 

Awake  it  from  its  sleep, 

And  see  if  it  can  keep 

Its  eyes  upon  the  blaze — 
Amaze,  amaze ! 

It  stares,  it  stares,  it  stares, 

It  dares  what  no  one  dares  ! 

It  lifts  its  little  hand  into  the  flanie 

Unharmed,  and  on  the  strings 

Paddles  a  little  tune,  and  sings, 

With  dumb  endeavor  sweetly — 

Bard  art  thou  completely  ! 
Little  child 
O'  th'  western  wild. 

Bard  art  thou  completely  ! 

Sweetly  with  dumb  endeavor, 

A  Poet  now  or  never, 
Little  child 
O'  th'  western  wild, 

/.  poet  now  or  never ! 


.     MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  273 

A  PORTRAIT.* 

"He  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  carle  : 
Thin  in  the  waist,  with  bushy  head  of  hair. 
As  hath  the  seeded  thistle,  when  a  parle 
It  holds  with  Zephyr,  ere  it  sendeth  fair 
Its  light  balloons  into  the  summer  air; 
Thereto  his  beard  had  not  begun  to  bloom, 
No  brush  had  touched  his  chin,  or  razor  sheer ; 
No  care  had  touched  his  cheek  with  mortal  doom, 
But  new  he  was,  and  bright,  as  scarf  from  Persian  loom. 

"  Ne  cared  he  for  wine  or  half-and-half ; 
Ne  cared  he  for  fish,  or  flesh,  or  fowl ; 
And  sauces  held  he  worthless  as  the  chaff ; 
He  'sdeigned   the  swine-head  at  the  wassail-bowl ; 
Ne  with  lewd  ribbalds  sat  he  cheek  by  jowl ; 
Ne  with  sly  lemans  in  the  scorner's  chair  ; 
But  after  water-brooks  this  pilgrim's  soul 
Panted,  and  all  his  food  was  woodland  air  ; 
Though  he  would  oft-times  feast  on  gilliflowers  rare. 

"The  slang  of  cities  in  no  wise  he  knew, 
Tippijig  the  ivink  to  him  was  heathen  Greek  ; 
He  sipped  no  "  olden  Tom,"  or  "ruin  blue," 
Or  Nantz,  or  cherry-brandy,  drank  full  meek 
By  many  a  damsel  brave,  and  rouge  of  cheek ; 
Nor  did  he  know  each  agea  watchman's  beat. 
Nor  in  obscured  purlieus  would  he  seek 
For  curled  Jewesses,  with  ankles  neat, 

Who,  as  they  walk  abroad,  make  tinkling  with  their 
feet." 

•  These  jocose  verses  relate  to  Keats's  friend  Mr.  Brown. 
18 


274  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  SPENSERIAN  STANZA* 

"  In  after-time,  a  sage  of  mickle  lore 
Yclep'd  Typographus,  the  Giant  took, 
And  did  refit  his  limbs  as  heretofore, 
And  made  him  read  in  many  a  learned  book, 
And  into  many  a  lively  legend  look  ; 
Thereby  in  goodly  themes  so  training  him, 
That  all  his  brutishness  he  quite  forsook, 
When,  meeting  Artegall  and  Talus  grim, 
The  one  he  struck  stone-blind,  the  other's  eyes  wox 
dim." 


FRAGMENT. 

Where's  the  Poet  ?  show  him  !  show  him  I 

Muses  nine  !  that  I  may  know  him  ! 

'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  man 

Is  an  equal,  be  he  King, 

Or  poorest  of  the  beggar-clan, 

Or  any  other  wondrous  thing 

A  man  may  be  'twixt  ape  and  Plato ; 

♦Lord  Houghton  explains  this  effusion  as  follows  : — "  The  copy  of  *  Spen- 
ser '  which  Keats  had  in  daily  use,  contains  the  following  stanza,  inserted  at  the 
close  of  Canto  ii.  Book  v.  His  sympathies  were  very  much  on  the  side  of  the 
revolutionary  '  Gyant.'  who  '  undertook  for  to  repair '  tJie  '  realms  of  nations  run 
awry,'  and  to  suppress  '  tyrants  that  make  men  subject  to  their  law,'  *  and  lord- 
ings  curbe  that  commons  over-aw,'  while  he  grudged  the  legitimate  victoiy,  as 
he  rejected  the  conservative  philosophy,  of  the  '  righteous  Artegall '  and  his 
comrade,  the  fierce  defender  of  privilege  and  order.  And  he  expressed,  in  this 
ex  post  facto  prophecy,  his  ronviction  of  the  ultimate  triumph  of  freedom  and 
equality  by  the  power  of  transmitted  knowledge."  -      "~ 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  275 

'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  bird, 
Wren,  or  Eagle,  finds  his  way  to 
All  its  instincts  ;  he  hath  heard 
The  Lion's  roaring,  and  can  tell 
What  his  horny  throat  expresseth, 
And  to  him  the  Tiger's  yell 
Comes  articulate  and  presseth 
On  his  ear  like  mother-tongue. 


MODERN  LOVE. 

And  what  is  love  ?     It  is  a  doll  dress'd  up 

For  idleness  to  cosset,  nurse,  and  dandle ; 

A  thing  of  soft  misnomers,  so  divine 

That  silly  youth  doth  think  to  make  itself 

Divine  by  loving,  and  so  goes  on 

Yawning  and  doting  a  whole  summer  long, 

Till  Miss's  comb  is  made  a  pearl  tiara, 

And  common  Wellingtons  turn  Romeo  boots  ; 

Then  Cleopatra  lives  at  number  seven, 

And  Anthony  resides  in  Brunswick  Square. 

Fools  !  if  some  passions  high  have  warm'd  the  world 

If  Queens  and  Soldiers  have  play'd  deep  with  hearts, 

It  is  no  reason  why  such  agonies 

Should  be  more  common  than  the  growth  of  weeds. 

Fools !  make  me  whole  again  that  weighty  pearl 

The  Queen  of  Egypt  melted,  and  I'll  say 

That  ye  may  love  in  spite  of  beaver  hats. 


276  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


FRAGMENT  OF  "THE  CASTLE  BUILDER." 


To-night  I'll  have  my  friar — let  me  think 

About  my  room, — I'll  have  it  in  the  pink ; 

It  should  be  rich  and  sombre,  and  the  moon, 

Just  in  its  mid-life  in  the  midst  of  June, 

Should  look  thro'  four  large  windows  and  display 

Clear,  but  for  gold-fish  vases  in  the  way, 

Their  glassy  diamonding  on  Turkish  floor  : 

The  tapers  keep  aside,  an  hour  and  more. 

To  see  what  else  the  moon  alone  can  show  ; 

While  the  night-breeze  doth  softly  let  us  know 

My  terrace  is  well  bower'd  with  oranges. 

Upon  the  floor  the  dullest  spirit  sees 

A  guitar-ribbon  and  a  lady's  glove 

Beside  a  crumple-leaved  tale  of  love  ; 

A  tambour-frame,  with  Venus  sleeping  there, 

All  finished  but  some  ringlets  of  her  hair  ; 

A  viol,  bow-strings  torn,  cross-wise  upon 

A  glorious  folio  of  Anacreon ; 

A  skull  upon  a  mat  of  roses  lying, 

Ink'd  purple  with  a  song  concerning  dying ; 

An  hour  glass  on  the  turn,  amid  the  trails 

Of  passion-flower  ; — just  in  time  there  sails 

A  cloud  across  the  moon, — the  lights  bring  in  I 

And  see  what  more  my  phantasy  can  win. 

It  is  a  gorgeous  room,  but  somewhat  sad ; 

The  draperies  are  so,  as  tho'  they  had 

Been  made  for  Cleopatra's  winding-sheet ; 

And  opposite  the  steadfast  eye  doth  meet 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  277 

A  spacious  looking-glass,  upon  whose  face, 
In  letters  raven-sombre,  you  may  trace 
Old  ''  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel  Upharsin." 
Greek  busts  and  statuary  have  ever  been 
Held,  by  the  finest  spirits,  fitter  far 
Than  vase  grotesque  and  Siamesian  jar  ; 
Therefore  *tis  sure  a  want  of  attic  taste 
That  I  should  rather  love  a  gothic  waste 
Of  eyesight  on  cinque-colored  potter's  clay. 
Than  on  the  marble  fairness  of  old  Greece. 
My  table-coverlits  of  Jason's  fleece 
And  black  Numidian  sheep-wool  should  be  wrought, 
Gold,  black,  and  heavy  from  the  Lama  brought. 
My  ebon  sofas  should  delicious  be 
With  down  from  Leda's  cygnet  progeny 
My  pictures  all  Salvator's,  save  a  few 
Of  Titian's  portraiture,  and  one,  though  new, 
Of  Haydon's  in  its  fresh  magnificence. 
My  wine — O  good  !  'tis  here  at  my  desire, 
And  I  must  sit  to  supper  with  my  friar. 
•  «  «  »  • 


278  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

FRAGMENT. 

"  Under  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  they  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryo  atoms." 

Milton. 

Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow, 
Lethe's  weed  and  Hermes'  feather  \ 

Come  to-day,  and  come  to-morrow, 
I  do  love  you  both  together  ! — 
I  love  to  mark  sad  faces  in  fair  weather ; 

And  hear  a  merry  laugh  amid  the  thunder ; 
Fair  and  foul  I  love  together : 

Meadows  sweet  where  flames  are  under, 

And  a  giggle  at  a  wonder  ; 

Visage  sage  at  pantomime  ; 

Funeral,  and  steeple-chime; 

Infant  playing  with  a  skull  ; 

Morning  fair,  and  shipwreck'd  hull  : 

Nightshade  with  the  woodbine  kissing 

Serpents  in  red  roses  hissing  ; 

Cleopatra  regal-dress'd 

With  the  aspic  at  her  breast ; 

Dancing  music,  music  sad, 

Both  together,  sane  and  mad ; 

Muses  bright,  and  muses  pale ; 

Sombre  Saturn,  Momus  hale  ; — 

Laugh  and  sigh,  and  laugh  again; 

Oh  the  sweetness  of  the  pain ! 

Muses  bright  and  muses  pale, 

Bare  your  faces  of  the  veil ; 

Let  me  see :  and  let  me  write 

Of  the  day,  and  of  the  night — 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  27^ 

"       ■  —  ■■■■  — — ,-  ■  ■        ■  .  »      M     I    ..  ■^■^a^^.    I   ■!     I  ^ 

Both  together  : — let  me  slake 
All  my  thirst  and  sweet  heart-ache ! 
Let  my  bower  be  of  yew, 
Interwreath'd  with  myrtles  new 
Pines  and  lime-trees  full  in  bloom, 
And  my  couch  a  low  grass-tomb. 


TO 


What  can  I  do  to  drive  away 

Remembrance  from  my  eyes  ?  for  they  have  seen 

Ay,  an  hour  ago,  my  brilliant  Queen  ! 

Touch  has  a  memory.     O  say,  love,  say, 

What  can  I  do  to  kill  it  and  be  free 

In  my  own  liberty  ? 

When  every  fair  one  that  I  saw  was  fair, 

Enough  to  catch  me  in  but  half  a  snare. 

Not  keep  me  there  : 

When,  howe'er  poor  or  particolor'd  things, 

My  muse  had  wings, 

And  ever  ready  was  to  take  her  course 

Whither  I  bent  her  force, 

Unintellectual,  yet  divine  to  me  ;— 

Divine,  I  say  ! — What  sea-bird  o'er  the  sea 

Is  a  philosopher  the  while  he  goes 

Winging  along  where  the  great  water  throes? 

How  shall  I  do 

To  get  anew 

Those  moulted  feathers,  and  so  mount  once  more 

Above,  above 

The  reach  of  fluttering  Love, 


28o  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  make  him  cower  lowly  while  I  soar  ? 

Shall  I  gulp  wine  ?  No,  that  is  vulgarism, 

A  heresy  and  schism, 

Foisted  into  the  canon-law  of  love  ; — 

No, — wine  is  only  sweet  to  happy  men  ; 

More  dismal  cares 

Seize  on  me  unawares, — 

Where  shall  I  learn  to  get  my  peace  again  ? 

To  banish  thoughts  of  that  most  hateful  land, 

Dungeoner  of  my  friends,  that  wicked  strand 

Where  they  were  wreck'd  and  live  a  wrecked  life ; 

That  monstrous  region,  whose  dull  rivers  pour, 

Ever  from  their  sordid  urns  unto  the  shore, 

Unown'd  of  any  weedy-haired  gods  ; 

Whose  winds,  all  zephyrless,  hold  scourging  rods. 

Iced  in  the  great  lakes,  to  afflict  mankind ; 

Whose  rank-grown  forests,  frosted,  black,  and  blind, 

Would  fright  a  Dryad  ;  whose  harsh  herbaged  meads 

Make  lean  and  lank  the  starv'd  ox  while  he  feeds  ; 

There  bad  flowers  have  no  scent,  birds  no  sweet  song, 

And  great  unerring  Nature  once  seems  wrong. 

O,  for  some  sunny  spell 

To  dissipate  the  shadows  of  this  hell !       , 

Say  they  are  gone, — with  the  new  dawning  light 

Steps  forth  my  lady  bright ! 

O,  let  me  once  more  rest 

My  soul  upon  that  dazzling  breast ! 

Let  once  again  these  aching  arms  be  placed, 

The  tender  jailers  of  thy  waist ! 

And  let  me  feel  that  warm  breath  here  and  there 

To  spread  a  rapture  in  my  very  hair, — 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2St 


O,  the  sweetness  of  the  pain  ! 

Give  me  those  lips  again  ! 

Enough  !  Enough  !  it  is  enough  for  me 

To  dream  of  thee  ! 


AN  EARLIER  VERSION  OF  "HYPERION." 

HYPERION,   A  VISION* 

Fanatics  have  their  dreams,  wherewith  they  weave 

A  paradise  for  a  sect  ;  the  savage,  too, 

From  forth  the  loftiest  fashion  of  his  sleep 

Guesses  at  heaven  ;  pity  these  have  not 

Traced  upon  vellum  or  wild  Indian  leaf 

The  shadows  of  melodious  utterance. 

But  bare  of  laurel  they  live,  dream,  and  die ; 

For  Poesy  alone  can  tell  her  dreams, — 

With  the  fine  spell  of  words  alone  can  save 

Imagination  from  the  sable  chain 

And  dumb  enchantment.     Who  alive  can  say, 

"  Thou  art  no  Poet — may'st  not  tell  thy  dreams  ? " 

Since  every  man  whose  soul  is  not  a  clod 

Hath  visions  and  would  speak,  if  he  had  loved, 

And  been  well  nurtured  in  his  mother  tongue. 

Whether  the  dream  now  purposed  to  rehearse 

Be  poet's  or  fanatic's  will  be  known 

When  this  warm  scribe,  my  hand,  is  in  the  grave. 

Methought  I  stood  where  trees  of  every  clime, 
Palm,  myrtle,  oak,  and  sycamore,  and  beech, 

•  The  passages  within  brackets  are  those  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  printed 
pccm. 


282  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


With  plantane  and  spice-blossoms,  made  a  screen, 

In  neighborhood  of  fountains  (by  the  noise 

Soft-showering  in  mine  ears),  and  (by  the  touch 

Of  scent)not  far  from  roses.     Twining  round 

I  saw  an  arbor  with  a  drooping  roof 

Of  treUis  vines,  and  bells,  and  larger  blooms, 

Like  floral  censers,  swinging  light  in  air  ; 

Before  its  wreathed  doorway,  on  a  mound 

Of  moss,  was  spread  a  feast  of  summer  fruits, 

Which,  nearer  seen,  seem'd  refuse  of  a  meal 

By  angel  tasted  or  our  Mother  Eve ; 

For  empty  shells  were  scattered  on  the  grass, 

And  grapestalks  but  half-bare,  and  remnants  more 

Sweet-smelling,  whose  pure  kinds  I  could  not  know. 

Still  was  more  plenty  than  the  fabled  horn 

Thrice  emptied  could  pour  forth  at  banqueting, 

For  Proserpine  return'd  to  her  own  fields, 

Where  the  white  heifers  low.     And  appetite, 

More  yearning  than  on  earth  I  ever  felt, 

Growing  within,  I  ate  deliciously, — 

And,  after  not  long,  thirsted  ;  for  thereby 

Stood  a  cool  vessel  of  transparent  juice 

Sipp  d  by  the  wander'd  bee,  the  which  I  took, 

And  pledging  all  the  mortals  of  the  world, 

And  all  the  dead  whose  names  are  in  our  lips, 

Drank.     That  full  draught  is  parent  of  my  theme^ 

No  Asian  poppy  nor  elixir  fine 

Of  the  soon-fading,  jealous,  Caliphat, 

No  poison  gender'd  in  close  monkish  cell. 

To  thin  the  scarlet  conclave  of  old  men. 

Could  so  have  wrapt  unwilling  life  away. 

Among  the  fragrant  husks  and  berries  crush'd 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2S3 


Upon  the  grass,  I  struggled  hard  against 

The  domineering  potion,  but  in  vain. 

The  cloudy  swoon  came  on,  and  down  I  sank. 

Like  a  Silenus  on  an  antique  vase. 

How  long  I  slumbered  'tis  a  chance  to  guess. 

When  sense  of  life  return'd,  I  started  up 

As  if  with  wings,  but  the  fair  trees  were  gone, 

The  mossy  mound  and  arbor  were  no  more. 

I  look'd  around  upon  the  curved  sides 

Of  an  old  sanctuary,  with  roof  august, 

Builded  so  high,  it  seem'd  that  filmed  clouds 

Might  spread  beneath  as  o'er  the  stars  of  heaven. 

So  old  the  place  was,  I  remember'd  none 

The  like  upon  the  earth  :  what  I  had  seen 

Of  gray  cathedrals,  buttress'^  walls,  rent  towers, 

The  superannuations  of  sunk  realms, 

Or  Nature's  rocks  toil  d  hard  in  waves  and  winds, 

Seem'd  but  the  faulture  of  decrepit  things 

To  that  eternal  domed  monument. 

Upon  the  marble  at  my  feet  there  lay 

Store  of  strange  vessels  and  large  draperies, 

Which  needs  had  been  of  dyed  asbestos  wove, 

Or  in  that  place  the  moth  could  not  corrupt, 

So  white  the  linen,  so,  in  some,  distinct 

Ran  imageries  from  a  sombre  loom. 

All  in  a  mingled  heap  confused  there  lay 

Robes,  golden  tongs,  censer  and  chafing-dish. 

Girdles,  and  chains,  and  holy  jewelries. 

Turning  from  these  with  awe,  once  more  I  raised 
My  eyes  to  fathom  the  space  every  way  : 
The  embossed  roof,  the  silent  massy  range 


284  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Of  columns  north  and  south,  ending  in  mist 
Of  nothing ;  then  to  eastward,  where  black  gates 
Were  shut  against  the  sunrise  evermore ; 
Then  to  the  west  I  look'd,  and  saw  far  off 
An  image,  huge  of  feature  as  a  cloud, 
At  level  of  whose  feet  an  altar  slept, 
To  be  approach'd  on  either  side  by  steps 
And  marble  balustrade,  and  patient  travail 
To  count  with  toil  the  innumerable  degrees. 
Towards  the  altar  sober-paced  I  went, 
Repressing  haste  as  too  unholy  there  ; 
And,  coming  nearer,  saw  beside  the  shrine 
One  ministering  ;  and  there  arose  a  flame. 
When  in  mid-day  the  sickening  east-wind 
Shifts  sudden  to  the  south,  the  small  warm  rain 
Melts  out  the  frozen  incense  from  all  flowers, 
And  fills  the  air  with  so  much  pleasant  health 
That  even  the  dying  man  forgets  his  shroud  ; — 
Even  so  that  lofty  sacrificial  fire, 
Sending  forth  Maian  incense,  spread  around 
Forgetfulness  of  everything  but  bliss 
And  clouded  all  the  altar  with  soft  smoke  ; 
From  whose  white  fragrant  curtains  thus  I  heard 
Language  pronounced  :  "  If  thou  canst  not  ascend 
These  steps,  die  on  that  marble  where  thou  art 
Thy  flesh,  near  cousin  to  the  common  dust, 
Will  parch  for  lack  of  nutriment  ;  thy  bones 
Will  wither  in  few  years,  and  vanish  so 
That  not  the  quickest  eye  could  find  a  grain 
Of  what  thou  now  art  on  that  pavement  cold. 
The  sands  of  thy  short  life  are  spent  this  hour, 
And  no  hand  in  the  universe  can  turn 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  285 

Thy  hour-glass,  if  these  gummed  leaves  be  burnt 

Ere  thou  canst  mount  up  these  immortal  steps." 

I  heard,  I  look'd  :  two  senses  both  at  once, 

So  fine,  so  subtle,  felt  the  tyranny 

Of  that  fierce  threat  and  the  hard  task  proposed. 

Prodigious  seem'd  the  toil  ;  the  leaves  were  yet 

Burning,  when  suddenly  a  palsied  chill 

Struck  from  the  paved  level  up  my  limbs. 

And  was  ascending  quick  to  put  cold  grasp 

Upon  those  streams  that  pulse  beside  the  throat. 

I  shriek'd,  and  the  sharp  anguish  of  my  shriek 

Stung  my  own  ears  ;  I  strove  hard  to  escape 

The  numbness,  strove  to  gain  the  lowest  step. 

Slow,  heavy,  deadly  was  my  pace  :  the  cold 

Grew  stifling,  suffocating  at  the  heart  ; 

And  when  I  clasp'd  my  hands  I  felt  them  not. 

One  minute  before  death  my  iced  foot  touch'd 

The  lowest  stair  ;  and,  as  it  touch'd,  life  seem'd 

To  pour  in  at  the  toes ;  I  mounted  up 

As  once  fair  angels  on  a  ladder  flew 

From  the  green  turf  to  heaven.     "  Holy  Power." 

Cried  I,  approaching  near  the  horned  shrine, 

•'  What  am  I  that  should  so  be  saved  from  death  .^ 

What  am  I  that  another  death  come  not 

To  choke  my  utterance,  sacrilegious,  here  ? " 

Then  said  the  veiled  shadow  :  "  Thou  hast  felt 

What  'tis  to  die  and  live  again  before 

Thy  fated  hour  ;  that  thou  hadst  power  to  do  so 

Is  thine  own  safety  ;  thou  hast  dated  on 

Thy  doom."     '*  High  Prophetess,"  said  I,  "  purge  o£^ 

Benign,  if  so  it  please  thee,  my  mind's  film." 

"  None  can  usurp  this  height,"  returned  that  shade, 


286  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

*'  But  those  to  whom  the  miseries  of  the  world 

Are  misery,  and  will  not  let  them  rest. 

All  else  who  find  a  heaven  in  the  world, 

Where  they  may  thoughtless  sleep  away  their  days, 

If  by  a  chance  into  this  fane  they  come, 

Rot  on  the  pavement  where  thou  rottedst  half." 

"Are  there  not  thousands  in  the  world,"  said  I, 

Encouraged  by  the  sooth  voice  of  the  shade, 

**  Who  love  their  fellows  even  to  the  death, 

Who  feel  the  giant  agony  of  the  world, 

And  more,  like  slaves  to  poor  humanity. 

Labor  for  mortal  good  }     I  sure  should  see 

Other  men  here,  but  I  am  here  alone." 

"  Those  whom  thou  spakest  of  are  no  visionaries," 

Rejoin'd  that  voice  ;  "  they  are  no  dreamers  weak; 

They  seek  no  wonder  but  the  human  face. 

No  music  but  a  happy-noted  voice  : 

They  come  not  here,  they  have  no  thought  to  come ; 

And  thou  art  here,  for  thou  art  less  than  they. 

What  benefit  canst  thou  do,  or  all  thy  tribe, 

To  the  great  world  ?     Thou  art  a  dreaming  thing, 

A  fever  of  thyself  :  think  of  the  earth  ; 

What  bliss,  even  in  hope,  is  there  for  thee  ? 

What  haven  ?  every  creature  hath  its  home, 

Every  sole  man  hath  days  of  joy  and  pain, 

Whether  his  labors  be  sublime  or  low — 

The  pain  alone,  the  joy  alone,  distinct 

Only  the  dreamer  venoms  all  his  days. 

Bearing  more  woe  than  all  his  sins  deserve. 

Therefore,  that  happiness  be  somewhat  shared. 

Such  things  as  thou  art  are  admitted  oft 

Into  like  gardens  thou  didst  past  ere  while, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  -      287 

And  suffer'd  in  these  temples :  for  that  cause 

Thou  standest  safe  beneath  this  statue's  knees." 

"  That  I  am  favor'd  for  unworthiness, 

By  such  propitious  parley  medicined 

In  sickness  not  ignoble,  I  rejoice, 

Ay,  and  could  weep  for  love  of  such  award." 

So  answer'd  I,  continuing,  "  If  it  please, 

Majestic  shadow,  tell  me  where  I  am. 

Whose  altar  this,  for  whom  this  incense  curls  ; 

What  image  this  whose  face  I  cannot  see 

For  the  broad  marble  knees  ;  and  who  thou  art. 

Of  accent  feminine,  so  courteous  ?  " 

Then  the  tall  shade,  in  drooping  linen  veil'd 
Spoke  out,  so  much  more  earnest,  that  her  breath 
Stirr'd  the  thin  folds  of  gauze  that  drooping  hung 
About  a  golden  censer  from  her  hand 
Pendent ;  and  by  her  voice  I  knew  she  shed 
Long-treasured  tears.     "  This  temple,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  all  spared  from  the  thunder  of  a  war 
Foughten  long  since  by  giant  hierarchy 
Against  rebellion  :  this  old  image  here, 
Whose  carved  features  wrinkled  as  he  fell, 
Is  Saturn's  ;  I,  Moneta,  left  supreme. 
Sole  goddess  of  this  desolation." 
I  had  no  words  to  answer,  for  my  tongue, 
Useless,  could  find  about  its  roofed  home 
No  syllable  of  a  fit  majesty 
To  make  rejoinder  to  Moneta's  mourn  : 
There  was  a  silence,  while  the  altar's  blaze 
Was  famting  for  sweet  food.     I  look'd  thereon, 


288  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  on  the  paved  floor,  where  nigh  were  piled 

Faggots  of  cinnamon,  and  many  heaps 

Of  other  crisped  spicewood  :  then  again 

I  look'd  upon  the  altar,  and  its  horns 

VVhiten'd  with  ashes,  and  its  languorous  flame, 

And  then  upon  the  offerings  again  ; 

And  so,  by  turns,  till  sad  Moneta  cried  : 

"  The  sacrifice  is  done,  but  not  the  less 

Will  I  be  kind  to  thee  for  thy  good-will. 

My  power,  which  to  me  is  still  a  curse, 

Shall  be  to  thee  a  wonder  ;  for  the  scenes 

Still  swooning  vivid  through  my  globed  brain. 

With  an  electral  changing  misery, 

Thou  shalt  with  these  dull  mortal  eyes  behold 

Free  from  all  pain,  if  wonder  pain  thee  not." 

As  near  as  an  immortal's  sphered  words 

Could  to  a  mother's  soften  were  these  last : 

And  yet  I  had  a  terror  of  her  robes, 

And  chiefly  of  the  veils  that  from  her  brow 

Hung  pale,  and  curtain'd  her  in  mysteries, 

That  made  my  heart  too  small  to  hold  its  blood. 

This  saw  that  Goddess,  and  with  sacred  hand 

Parted  the  veils.     Then  saw  I  a  wan  face, 

Not  pined  by  human  sorrows,  but  bright-blanch'd 

By  an  immortal  sickness  which  kills  not ; 

It  works  a  constant  change,  which  happy  death 

Can  put  no  end  to  ;  deathwards  progressing 

To  no  death  was  that  visage ;  it  had  past 

The  lily  and  the  snow ;  and  beyond  these 

I  must  not  think  now,  though  I  saw  that  face. 

But  for  her  eyes  I  should  have  fled  away  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2^9 

They  held  me  back  with  a  benignant  light, 
Soft,  mitigated  by  divinest  lids 
Half-closed,  and  visionless  entire  they  seem'd 
Of  all  external  things  ;  they  saw  me  not, 
But  in  blank  splendor  beam'd,  like  the  mild  moon, 
Who  comforts  those  she  sees  not,  who  knows  not 
What  eyes  are  upward  cast.     As  I  had  found 
A  grain  of  gold  upon  a  mountain's  side, 
And,  twinged  with  avarice,  strain'd  out  my  eyes 
To  search  its  sullen  entrails  rich  with  ore, 
So,  at  the  view  of  sad  Moneta's  brow, 
I  asked  to  see  what  things  the  hollow  brow 
Behind  environed ;  what  high  tragedy 
In  the  dark  secret  chambers  of  her  skull 
Was  acting,  that  could  give  so  dread  a  stress 
To  her  cold  lips,  and  fill  with  such  a  light 
Her  planetary  eyes,  and  touch  her  voice 
With  such  a  sorrow  ?     "  Shade  of  Memory 
Cried  I,  with  act  adorant  at  her  feet, 
"  By  all  the  gloom  hung  round  thy  fallen  house. 
By  this  last  temple,  by  the  golden  age, 
By  great  Apollo,  thy  dear  foster-child, 
And  by  thyself,  forlorn  divinity, 
The  pale  Omega  of  a  wither'd  race. 
Let  me  behold,  according  as  thou  saidst. 
What  in  thy  brain  so  ferments  to  and  fro!" 
No  sooner  had  this  conjuration  past 
My  devout  lips,  than  side  by  side  we  stood 
(Likti  a  stunt  bramble  by  a  solemn  pine) 
[Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

^9 


290  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon  and  eve's  one  star.]  * 

Onward  I  look'd  beneath  the  gloomy  boughs,^ 

And  saw  what  first  I  thought  an  image  huge, 

Like  to  the  image  pedestalFd  so  high 

In  Saturn's  temple  ;  then  Moneta's  voice 

Came  brief  upon  mine  ear.     "  So  Saturn  sat 

When  he  had  lost  his  realms ;  "  whereon  there  grew 

A  power  within  me  of  enormous  ken 

To  see  as  a  god  sees,  and  take  the  depth 

Of  things  as  nimbly  as  the  outward  eye 

Can  size  and  shape  pervade.     The  lofty  theme 

Of  those  few  words  hung  vast  before  my  mind 

With  half-unravell'd  web.     I  sat  myself 

Upon  an  eagle's  watch,  that  I  might  see, 

And  seeing  ne'er  forget.     No  stir  of  life* 

Was  in  this  shrouded  vale, — not  so  much  air 

As  in  the  zoning  of  a  summer's  day 

[Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feathered  grass ; 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  noiseless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 

By  reason  of  the  f  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  more  %  shade  ;  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Prest  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went] 
No  further  than  to  where  old  Saturn's  feet 

*  Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair  ; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head, 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed     *    *    * 

t  Kis.  %  a. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  29r 

Had  rested,  and  there  slept  how  long  a  sleep  !  * 
Degraded,  cold,  [upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred,  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  listening  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place  ; 
But  there  came  one  who,  with  a  kindred  hand, 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not] 
Then  came  the  grieved  voice  of  Mnemosyne, 
And  grieved  I  hearken'd.     "  That  divinity 
Whom  thou  saw'st  step  from  yon  forlornest  wood. 
And  with  slow  pace  approach  our  fallen  king, 
Is  Thea,  softest-natured  of  our  brood." 
I  mark'd  the  Goddess,  in  fair  statuary 
Surpassing  wan  Moneta  by  the  head, 
And  in  her  sorrow  nearer  woman's  tears,t 
[There  was  a  list'ning  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 
As  if  the  venomed  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 

*  No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 

And  slept  there  since. 
t  She  was  a  goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 

By  her,  in  stature,  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height ;  she  would  have  ta'eQ 

Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck, 

Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Mcmphian  sphinx 

Pedestall'd,  haply,  in  a  palace  court. 

When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 

But  oh  !  how  unlike  beauty  was  that  face ; 

Kow  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  beauty's  self  I 


292  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up, 

One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 

Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there. 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  * 

The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 

She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 

Leaning,  with  parted  lips  some  words  she  spoke 

In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ-tone  ; 

Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 

Would  come  in  this  like  accenting  ;  *  how  frail 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods  ! 

"  Saturn,  look  up  !  and  for  what,  poor  lo»t  king  ?  f 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee  ;  no,  not  one  ; 
I  cannot  say,  wherefore  thus  sleepest  thou  ?  :j: 
For  Heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  Earth 
Knows  thee  not,  so  §  afflicted,  for  a  god. 
The  Ocean,  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise. 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thy  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  captious  ||  at  the  new  command, 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning,  in  unpractised  hands, 
Scourges  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 

With  such  remorseless  speed  still  come  new  woes,^ 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 

-  In  these  like  accents. 

t  Though  wherefore,  poor  old  king  ? 

I  O !  wherefore  sleepest  thou.  §  thus. 

II  Conscious  of  the  new  command. 

*J  O  aching  time  !     0  moments  big  as  years  ! 
All,  as  ye  pass,  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs, 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  293 

Saturn!  sleep  on  :  me  thoughtless,*  why  should  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn !  sleep  on,  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when  upon  a  tranced  summer  night  f 
Forests,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  noise,  % 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Swelling  upon  the  silence,  dying  off,  § 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave, 
So  came  these  words  and  went  ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  prest  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  earth, 
Just  where  her  fallen  hair  might  spread  in  curls  || 
A  soft  and  silken  net  for  Saturn's  feet.] 
Long,  long  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  sculpture  builded-up  upon  the  grave 
Of  their  own  power.     A  long  awful  time 
I  look'd  upon  them  ;  still  they  were  the  same 
The  frozen  God  still  bending  to  the  earth. 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Moneta  silent.     Without  stay  or  prop 
But  my  own  weak  mortality,  I  bore 
The  load  of  this  eternal  quietude. 
The  unchanging  gloom  and  the  three  fixed  shapes 
Ponderous  upon  my  senses,  a  whole  moon  ; 
For  by  my  burning  brain  I  measured  sure 
Her  silver  seasons  shedded  on  the  night, 

*  O,  thoughtless,  why  did  I. 

t  Add^ — Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 

Tall  oaks  iox  forests  %  StiTt 

§  Which  comes  upon  the  silence  and  dies  off. 
II  She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground, 

Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread. 


294  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  every  day  by  day  methought  I  grew 
More  gaunt  and  ghostly.     Oftentimes  I  pray'd 
Intense,  that  death  would  take  me  from  the  vale 
And  all  its  burdens  :  gasping  with  despair 
Of  change,  hour  after  hour  I  cursed  myself, 
Until  old  Saturn  raised  his  faded  eyes, 
And  look'd  around  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fair  kneeling  goddess  at  his  feet. 

As  the    moist   scent   of    flowers,  and  grass,   and 
leaves, 
Fills  forest-dells  with  a  pervading  air. 
Known  to  the  woodland  nostril,  so  the  words 
Of  Saturn  fill'd  the  mossy  glooms  around. 
Even  to  the  hollows  of  time-eaten,  oaks. 
And  to  the  windings  of  the  foxes'  hole, 
With  sad,  low  tones,  while  thus  he  spoke,  and  sent 
Strange  moanings  to  the  solitary  Pan. 
"  Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  we  are  swallow'd  up 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
[Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 
And  peaceful  sway  upon  man's  harvesting. 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in,*]     Moan  and  wail ; 

*  One  moon,  with  alternations  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern  : 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone. 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrovy  of  the  placBi 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  295 

Moan,  brethren,  moan  ;  for  lo,  the  rebel  spheres 
Spin  round  ;  the  stars  their  ancient  courses  keep  ; 
Clouds  still  with  shadowy  moisture  haunt  the  earth. 
Still  suck  their  fill  of  light  from  sun  and  moon  ; 
Still  buds  the  tree,  and  still  the  sea  shores  murmur ; 
There  is  no  death  in  all  the  universe, 
No  smell  of  death. — There  shall  be  death.      Moan 

moan  ; 
Moan,  Cybele,  moan  ;  for  thy  pernicious  babes 
Have  changed  a  god  into  an  aching  palsy. 
Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  I  have  no  strength  left  ; 
Weak  as  the  reed,  weak,  feeble  as  my  voice. 
Oh !  Oh  !  the  pain,  the  pain  of  feebleness  ; 
Moan,  moan,  for  still  I  thaw ;  or  give  me  help  ; 
Throw  down  those  imps,  and  give  me  victory. 
Let  me  hear  other  groans,  [and  trumpets  blown 

And  that  fair  kneeling  goddess  ;   and  then  spoke 

As  with  a  palsied  tongue  ;  and  while  his  beard 

Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady. 

"  O  tender  Spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 

Thea  !  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face  ! 

Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 

Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 

Is  Saturn's  ;   tell  me  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 

Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me  if  this  wrinkling  brow. 

Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 

Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 

To  make  me  desolate  ?   whence  came  the  sti  ength  ? 

How  was  it  niurtured  to  such  bursting-forth. 

While  Fate  seem''d  strangled  m  my  nervous  grasp? 

But  it  is  so ;  and  I  am  smother' d  up 

And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 

Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 

Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas. 

Of  peaceful  sway  above  men's  harvesting^ 

And  all  the  acts  which  Deity  supreme 

Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in." 


296  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

. — ^ » 

Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival,] 
From  the  gold  peaks  of  heaven's  high  piled  clouds  ;* 
[Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new.  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children."]     So  he  feebly  ceased, 
With  such  a  poor  and  sickly-sounding  pause, 
Methought  I  hear  some  old  man  of  the  earth 
Bewailing  earthly  loss  ;  nor  could  my  eyes 
And  ears  act  with  that  unison  of  sense 
Which  marries  sweet  sound  with  the  grace  of  form, 
And  dolorous  accent  from  a  tragic  harp 
With  large  limb'd  visions.     More  I  scrutinized. 
Still  fixt  he  sat  beneath  the  sable  trees, 
Whose  arms  spread  straggling  in  wild  serpent  forms. 
With  leaves  all  hush'd  ;  his  awful  presence  there 
(Now  all  was  silent)  gave  a  deadly  lie 
To  what  I  erewhile  heard :  only  his  lips 
Trembled  amid  the  white  curls  of  his  beard  ; 
They  told  the  truth,  though  round  the  snowy  locks 
Hung  nobly,  as  upon  the  face  of  heaven 
A  mid-day  fleece  of  clouds.     Thea  arose. 
And  stretcht  her  white  arm  through  the  hollow  dark, 
Pointing  some  whither  :  whereat  he  too  rose. 
Like  a  vast  giant  seen  by  men  at  sea 
To  grow  pale  from  the  waves  at  dull  midnight 
They  melted  from  my  sight  into  the  woods  ; 
Ere  I  could  turn,  Moneta  cried,  "  These  twain 
Are  speeding  to  the  families  of  grief, 
Where,  rooft  in  by  black  rocks,  they  waste  [wait  .-*]  in 
pain 

*  Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  297 

And  darkness,  for  no  hopCo"     And  she  spake  on, 

As  ye  may  read  who  can  unwearied  pass 

Onward  from  the  antechamber  of  his  dream, 

Where,  even  at  the  open  doors,  awhile 

I  must  delay,  and  glean  my  memory 

Of  her  high  phrase — perhaps  no  further  dare. 


CANTO  II. 


"  Mortal,  that  thou  mayst  understand  aright, 
I  humanize  my  sayings  to  thy  ear. 
Making  comparisons  of  earthly  things  ; 
Or  thou  mightst  better  listen  to  the  wind, 
Whose  language  is  to  thee  a  barren  noise, 
Though  it  blows  legend-laden  thro'  the  trees. 
In  melancholy  realms  *  big  tears  are  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe. 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid  or  prison -bound, 
Groan  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
Listening  in  their  doom  for  Saturn's  voice.f 
But  one  of  the  whole  eagle-brood  %  still  keeps 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty  : 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sits,  still  snuffs  the  incense  teeming  up 
From  Man  to  the  Sun's  God — yet  insecure. 
For  as  upon  the  earth  §  dire  prodigies 

*  Meanwhile  in  other  realms     *    »    * 

t  And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 

J  Mammoth-brood. 

§  For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear. 


29S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

[Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudders  nc  ; 

Not  at  dog's  howl  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 

Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 

Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing  bell, 

Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 

But  horrors,  portioned  to  a  giant  Merve, 

Make  great  Hyperion  ache,*     His  palace  bright, 

Bastioned  with  pyramids  of  shining  gold. 

And  touched  with  a  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 

Glares  a  blood-red  thro'  all  the  thousand  courts, 

Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries  ; 

And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 

Flash  angerly;]  when  he  would  taste  the  wreaths 

[Of  incense  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills 

Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  takes 

Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metals  sick ;] 

Wherefore  [when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  West, 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day. 

For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch, 

And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody. 

He  paces  through  f  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease, 

With  strides  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

While  far  within  each  deep  aisle  and  deep  recess 

His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stand 

Amazed  and  full  of  fear  ;  like  anxious  men. 

Who  on  a  wide  plain  gather  in  sad  troops,  % 

When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 

Even  now  when  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance, 

Goes  step  for  step,  with  Thea  from  yon  §  woods, 

*  Oit  made  Hyperion  ache. 

t  Paced  away. 

X  Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops. 

§  The.    Through  the. 


irirSCELLANECUS  POEMS.  299 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight"  in  the  rear, 
Is  sloping  *  to  the  threshold  of  the  West.] 
Thither  wc  tend."     Now  in  the  clear  light  I  stood, 
Relieved  from  ti^?  dusk  vale.     Mnemosyne 
Was  sitting  on  a  square-edged  polished  stone, 
That  in  its  lucid  depth  reflected  pure 
Her  priestess'  garments.     My  quick  eyes  ran  on 
[From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault, 
Through  bow'rs  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-paned  lustrous  long  arcades  ] 
Anon  rush'd  by  the  bright  Hyperion 
[His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar  as  if  of  earthy  fire, 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  hours, 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared.] 
Here  MS.  ends^ 

*  Carac  slop   upon. 


300  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 


THE    CAP    AND    BELLS:* 

OR,    THE   JEALOUSIES. 
A   FAERY    TALE.       UNFINISHED. 


I. 


In  midmost  Ind,  beside  Hydaspes  cool, 
There  stood,  or  hover'd,  tremulous  in  the  air, 
A  faery  city,  'neath  the  potent  rule 
Of  Emperor  Elfinan  ;  famed  ev'rywhere 
For  love  of  mortal  women,  maidens  fair, 
Whose  lips  were  solid,  whose  soft  hands  were  made 
Of  a  fit  mould  and  beauty,  ripe  and  rare. 
To  pamper  his  slight  wooing,  warm  yet  staid  : 
He  lov'd  girls  smooth  as  shades,  but  hated  a  mere 
shade. 

IL 

This  was  a  crime  forbidden  by  the  law  ; 
And  all  the  priesthood  of  his  city  wept, 
For  ruin  and  dismay  they  well  foresaw. 
If  impious  prince  no  bound  or  limit  kept, 
And  Faery  Zendervester  overstept ; 

•  This  Poem  was  written  subject  to  future  amendments  and  omissions  :  i^ 
was  begun  without  a  plan,  and  without  any  prescribed  laws  for  the  supernatural 
machinery.— Charles  Brown. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  301 

They  wept,  he  sinn'd,  and  still  he  would  sin  on, 
They  dreamt  of  sin,  and  he  sinn'd  while  they  slept; 
In  vain  the  pulpit  thunder'd  at  the  throne. 
Caricature  was  vain,  and  vain  che  tart  lampoon. 

III. 

Which  seeing,  his  high  court  of  parliament 
Laid  a  remonstrance  at  his  Highness'  feet, 
Praying  his  royal  senses  to  content 
Themselves  with  what  in  faery  land  was  sweet. 
Befitting  best  that  shade  with  shade  should  meet : 
Whereat,  to  calm  their  fears,  he  promised  soon 
From  mortal  tempters  all  to  make  retreat, — 
Ay,  even  on  the  first  of  the  new  moon. 
An  immaterial  wife  to  espouse  as  heaven's  boon. 

IV. 

Meantime  he  sent  a  fluttering  embassy 
To  Pigmio,  of  Imaus  sovereign, 
To  half  beg,  and  half  demand,  respectfully, 
The  hand  of  his  fair  daughter  Bellanaine ; 
An  audience  had,  and  speeching  done,  they  gain 
Their  point,  and  bring  the  weeping  bride  away ; 
Whom,  with  but  one  attendant,  safely  lain 
Upon  their  wings,  they  bore  in  bright  array, 
While  little  harps  were  touch'd  by  many  a  lyric  fay, 

V. 

As  in  old  pictures  tender  cherubim 

A  child's  soul  thro'  the  sapphired  canvas  bear, 

So,  thro'  a  real  heaven,  on  they  swim 


302  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

With  the  sweet  princess  on  her  plumaged  lair, 
Speed  giving  to  the  winds  her  lustrous  hair ; 
And  so  she  journey'd,  sleeping  or  awake, 
Save  when,  for  healthful  exercise  and  air, 
She  chose  to  "  promener  a  I'aile,"  or  take 
A  pigeon's  somerset,  for  sport  or  change's  sake. 

VI. 

"  Dear  princess,  do  not  whisper  me  so  loud/* 
Quoth  Corallina,  nurse  and  confidant, 
"  Do  not  you  see  there,  lurking  in  a  cloud, 
Close  at  your  back,  that  sly  old  Crafticant  ? 
He  hears  a  whisper  plainer  than  a  rant : 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  do  not  look  so  blue  ; 
He's  Elfinan's  great  state-spy  militant. 
His  running,  lying,  flying  footman  too, — 
Dear  mistress,  let  him  have  no  handle  against  you  I 

VII. 

"  Show  him  a  mouse's  tail,  and  he  will  guess, 
With  metaphysic  swiftness,  at  the  mouse  ; 
Show  him  a  garden,  and  with  speed  no  less. 
He'll  surmise  sagely  of  a  dwelling-house, 
And  plot,  in  the  same  minute,  how  to  chouse 
The  owner  out  of  it ;  show  him  a—"     "  Peace  ! 
Peace  !  nor  contrive  thy  mistress'  ire  to  rouse ;  '* 
Return'd  the  princess,  "  my  tongue  shall  not  cease 
Till  from  this  hated  match  I  get  a  free  release." 

VIII. 

*' Ah,  beauteous  mortal !  "  "  Hush  !  "  quoth  CorallinCj 
"  Really  you  must  not  talk  of  him  indeed." 


THF  CAP  AND  BELLS.  3^3 

"  You  hush  !  "  rephed  the  mistress,  with  a  shine 
Of  anger  in  her  eyes,  enough  to  breed 
In  stouter  hearts  than  nurse's  fear  and  dread  : 
'Twas  not  the  glance  itself  made  nursey  flinch, 
But  of  its  threat  she  took  the  utmost  heed ; 
Not  liking  in  her  heart  an  hour-long  pinch, 
Or  a  sharp  needle  run  into  her  back  an  inch. 


IX. 

So  she  was  silenced,  and  fair  Bellanaine, 
Writhing  her  little  body  with  ennui. 
Continued  to  lament  and  to  complain. 
That  Fate,  cross-purposing,  should  let  her  be 
Ravish'd  away  far  from  her  dear  countree  ; 
That  all  her  feelings  should  be  set  at  nought, 
In  trumping  up  this  match  so  hastily, 
With  lowland  blood  ;  and  lowland  blood  she  thought 
Poison,  as  every  staunch  true-born  Imaian  ought. 


X. 

Sorely  she  grieved,  and  wetted  three  or  four 
White  Provenge  rose-leaves  with  her  faery  tears, 
But  not  for  this  cause  ; — alas  !  she  had  more 
Bad  reasons  for  her  sorrow,  as  appears 
In  the  famed  memoirs  of  a  thousand  years. 
Written  by  Crafticant,  and  published 
By  Parpaglion  and  Co.,  (those  sly  compeers 
Who  raked  up  ev'ry  fact  against  the  dead,) 
In  Scarab  Street,  Panthea,  at  the  Jubal's  Head. 


304  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

XI. 
Where,  after  a  long  hypercritic  howl 
Against  the  vicious  manners  of  the  age, 
He  goes  on  to  expose,  with  heart  and  soul. 
What  vice  in  this  or  that  year  was  the  rage. 
Backbiting  all  the  world  in  ev'ry  page  ; 
With  special  strictures  on  the  horrid  crime, 
(Section'd  and  subsection'd  with  learning  sage,) 
Of  faeries  stooping  on  their  wings  sublime 
To  kiss  a  mortal's  lips,  when  such  were  in  their  prime. 

XII. 

Turn  to  the  copious  index,  you  will  find 
Somewhere  in  the  column,  headed  letter  B, 
The  name  of  Bellanaine,  if  you're  not  blind  ; 
Then  pray  refer  to  the  text,  and  you  will  see 
An  article  made  up  of  calumny 
Against  this  highland  princess,  rating  her 
For  giving  way,  so  over  fashionably. 
To  this  new-fangled  vice,  which  seems  a  burr 
Stuck  in  his  moral  throat,  no  coughing  e'er  could  stix 

XIII. 

There  he  says  plainly  that  she  loved  a  man  I 
That  she  around  him  flutter'd,  flirted,  toy'd. 
Before  her  marriage  with  great  Elfinan ; 
That  after  marriage  too,  she  never  joy'd 
In  husband's  company,  but  still  employ'd 
Her  wits  to  'scape  away  to  Angle-land  ; 
Where  liv'd  the  youth,  who  worried  and  annoy'd 
Her  tender  heart,  and  its  warm  ardors  fann'd 
To  such  a  dreadful  blaze,  her  side  would   scorch  her 
hand. 


Tt-i'S  CAP  AND  BELLS.  305 

XIV. 

But  let  us  leave  this  idle  tittle  tattle 
To  waiting-maids,  and  bed-room  coteries, 
Nor  till  fit  time  against  her  fame  wage  battle. 
Poor  Elfinan  !  is  very  ill  at  ease, 
Let  us  resume  his  subject  if  you  please : 
For  it  may  comfort  and  console  him  much, 
To  rhyme  and  syllable  his  miseries  ; 
Poor  Elfinan  !  whose  cruel  fate  was  such, 
He  sat  and  cursed  a  bride  he  knew  he  could  not  touch. 

XV. 

Soon  as  (according  to  his  promises) 
The  bridal  embassy  had  taken  wing, 
And  vanish'd,  bird-like,  o'er  the  suburb  trees. 
The  Emperor,  empierced  with  the  sharp  sting 
Of  love,  retired,  vex'd  and  mu-rmuring 
Like  any  drone  shut  from  the  fair  bee-queen, 
Into  his  cabinet,  and  there  did  fling 
His  limbs  upon  a  sofa,  full  of  spleen. 
And   damn'd  his   House  of   Commons,  in  complete 
chagrin. 

XVI. 

"  I'll   trounce  some   o£  the   members,"   cried  the 

prince, 

"  I'll  put  a  mark  against  some  rebel  names, 

I'll  make  the  opposition-benches  wince, 

I'll  show  them  very  soon,  to  all  their  shames, 

What  'tis  to  smother  up  a  prince's  flames  ; 

That  ministers  should  join  in  it,  I  own. 

Surprises  me! — they  too  at  these  high  games! 

20 


3oS  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

Am  I  an  Emperor  ?     Do  I  wear  a  crown  ? 
Imperial  Elfinan,  go  hang  thyself  or  drown  ! 

XVII. 

"  ni  trounce    'em  ! — there's   the   square-cut  chan- 
cellor, 

His  son  shall  never  touch  that  bishopric  ; 

And  for  the  nephew  of  old  Palfior, 

ril  show  him  that  his  speeches  made  me  sick, 

And  give  the  colonelcy  to  Phalaric  ; 

The  tiptoe  marquis,  moral  and  gallant, 

Shall  lodge  in  shabby  taverns  upon  tick ; 

And  for  the  Speaker's  second  cousin's  aunt. 
She  sha'n't  be  maid  of  honor, — by  heaven  that  she 
sha'n't ! 

XVIII. 

"  I'll  shirk  the  Duke  of  A. ;  I'll  cut  his  brother  ; 

I'll  give  no  garter  to  his  eldest  son ; 

I  wont  speak  to  his  sister  or  his  mother ! 

The  Viscount  B.  shall  live  at  cut-and-run  ; 

But  how  in  the  world  can  I  contrive  to  stun 

That  fellow's  voice,  which  plagues  me  worse  than 

any, 
That  stubborn  fool,  that  imprudent  state-dun, 
Who  sets  down  ev'ry  sovereign  as  a  zany, — 
That  vulgar  commoner,  Esquire  Biancopany  ?       ^ 

XIX. 

"  Monstrous  affair  !  Pshaw  !  pah  !  what  ugly  minx 
Will  they  fetch  from  Imaus  for  my  bride  ? 


THE  CAP  A.VD  BELLS.  307 

Alas  !  my  wearied  heart  within  me  sinks, 
To  think  that  I  mast  be  so  near  allied 
To  a  cold  dullard  fay, — ah,  woe  betide  ! 
Ah,  fairest  of  all  human  loveliness  ! 
Sweet  Bertha !  what  crime  can  it  be  to  glide 
About  the  fragrant  plaitings  of  thy  dress, 
Or  kiss  thine  eyes,  or  count  thy  locks,  tress   after 
tress  ? " 


XX. 

So  said,  one  minute's  while  his  eyes  remain'd 
Half  lidded,  piteous,  languid,  innocent ; 
But,  in  a  wink,  their  splendor  they  regain'd. 
Sparkling  revenge  with  amorous  fury  blent. 
Love  thwarted  in  bad  temper  oft  has  vent : 
He  rose,  he  stampt  his  foot,  he  rang  the  bell. 
And  order'd  some  death-warrants  to  be  sent 
For  signature  : — somewhere  the  tempest  fell, 
As  many  a  poor  fellow  does  not  live  to  tell. 


XXI. 

'*  At  the  same  time,  Eban," — (this  was  his  page, 
A  fay  of  color,  slave  from  top  to  toe, 
Sent  as  a  present,  while  yet  under  age, 
From  the  Viceroy  of  Zanguebar, — wise,  slow, 
His  speech,  his  only  words  were  **  yes  "  and  "  no/ 
But  swift  of  look,  and  foot,  and  wing  was  he,) — 
"  At  the  same  time,  Eban,  this  instant  go 
To  Hum  the  soothsayer,  whose  name  I  see 
Among  the  fresh  arrivals  in  our  empery. 


2oS  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

XXII. 

"Bring    Hum    to  me!     But   stay — here    take   my 

ring, 
The  pledge  of  favor,  that  he  not  suspect 
Any  foul  play,  or  awkward  murdering, 
Tho'  I  have  bowstrung  many  of  his  sect ; 
Throw  in  a  hint,  that  if  he  should  neglect 
One  hour,  the  next  shall  see  him  in  my  grasp, 
And  the  next  after  that  shall  see  him  neck'd, 

Or  swallow'd  by  my  hunger-starved  asp, — 
And  mention  ('tis  as  well)  the  torture  of  the  wasp." 

XXIII. 

These  orders  given,  the  Prince,  in  half  a  pet, 
Let  o'er  the  silk  his  propping  elbow  slide, 
Caught  up  his  little  legs,  and,  in  a  fret, 
Fell  on  the  sofa  on  his  royal  side. 
The  slave  retreated  backwards,  humble-eyed, 
And  with  a  slave-like  silence  closed  the  door. 
And  to  old  Hum  thro'  street  and  alley  hied ; 
He  "  knew  the  city,"  as  we  say,  of  yore. 
And  for  short  cuts  and  turns,  was  nobody  knew  more. 

XXIV. 

It  was  the  time  when  wholesale  dealers  close 
Their  shutters  with  a  moody  sense  of  wealth, 
But  retail  dealers,  diligent,  let  loose 
The  gas  (objected  to  on  score  of  health), 
Convey'd  in  little  solder'd  pipes  by  stealth. 
And  make  it  flare  in  many  a  brilliant  form. 
That  all  the  powers  of  darkness  it  repell'th, 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  309 

Which  to  the  oil-trade  doth  great  scaith  and  harm. 
And  supersedeth  quite  the  use  of  the  glow-worm. 

XXV. 

Eban,  untempted  by  the  pastry-cooks, 
(Of  pastry  he  got  store  within  the  palace,) 
With  hasty  steps,  wrapp'd  cloak,  an'd  solemn  looks, 
Incognito  upon  his  errand  sallies. 
His  smelling-bottle  ready  for  the  allies  ; 
He  pass'd  the  hurdy-gurdies  with  disdain, 
Vowing  he'd  have  them  sent  on  board  the  galleys  ; 
Just  as  he  had  made  his  vow,  it  'gan  to  rain. 
Therefore  he  called  a  coach,  and  bade  it  drive  amain. 

XXVI. 

"  I'll  pull  the  string,"  said  he,  and  further  said, 
'*  Polluted  jarvey  !    Ah,  thou  filthy  hack  ! 
Whose  springs  of  life  are  all  dried  up  and  dead, 
Whose  linsey-wolsey  lining  hangs  all  slack, 
Whose  rug  is  straw,  whose  wholeness  is  a  crack  ; 
And  evermore  thy  steps  go  clatter-clitter  ; 
Whose  glass  once  up  can  never  be  got  back, 
Who  prov'st,  with  jolting  arguments  and  bitter, 
That  'tis  of  modern  use  to  travel  in  a  litter. 

XXVII. 

"  Thou  inconvenience  !  thou  hungry  crop 
For  all  corn  !  thou  snail-creeper  to  and  fro, 
Who  while  thou  goest  ever  seem'st  to  stop, 
And  fiddle-faddle  standest  while  you  go ; 
r  the  morning,  freighted  with  a  weight  of  woe, 


310  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

Unto  some  lazar-house  thou  journeyest, 
And  in  the  evening  tak'st  a  double  row 
Of  dowdies,  for  some  dance  or  party  drest, 
Besides  the  goods  meanv/hile  thou  movest  east  and 
west. 

xxviir. 
"By  thy  ungallant  bearing  and  sad  mien, 
An  inch  appears  the  utmost  thou  couldst  budge  ; 
Yet  at  the  slightest  nod,  or  hint,  or  sign, 
Round  to  the  curb-stone  patient  dost  thou  trudge, 
School'd  in  a  beckon,  learned  in  a  nudge, 
A  dull-eyed  Argus  watching  for  a  fare  ; 
Quiet  and  plodding  thou  dost  bear  no  grudge 
To  whisking  tilburies,  or  phaetons  rare. 
Curricles,  or  mail-coaches,  swift  beyond  compare." 

XXIX. 

Philosophizing  thus,  he  puU'd  the  check, 
And  bade  the  coachman  wheel  to  such  a  street, 
Who  turning  much  his  body,  more  his  neck, 
Louted  full  low,  and  hoarsely  did  him  greet: 
"  Certes,  Monsieur  were  best  take  to  his  feet, 
Seeing  his  servant  can  no  further  drive 
For  press  of  coaches,  that  to-night  here  meet, 
Many  as  bees  about  a  straw-capp'd  hive. 
When  first  for  April  honey  into  faint  flowers  they 
dive." 

XXX. 

Eban  then  paid  his  fare,  and  tiptoe  went 
To  Hum's  hotel ;  and,  as  he  on  did  pass 
With  head  inclined,  each  dusky  lineament 


rffE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  311 

Show'd  in  the  pearl-paved  street,  as  in  a  glass  ; 
His  purple  vest,  that  ever  peeping  was 
Rich  from  the  fluttering  crimson  of  his  cloak, 
His  silvery  trousers,  and  his  silken  sash 
Tied  in  a  burnish'd  knot,  their  semblance  took 
Upon  the  mirror'd  walls,  wherever  he  might  lool:. 

XXXI. 

He  smiled  at  self,  and,  smiling,  show'd  his  teeth, 
And  seeing  his  white  teeth,  he  smiled  the  more ; 
Lifted  his  eyebrows,  spurn'd  the  path  beneath, 
Show'd  teeth  again,  and  smiled  as  heretofore, 
Until  he  knock'd  at  the  magician's  door ; 
Where,  till  the  porter  answer'd,  might  be  seen, 
In  the  clear  panel  more  he  could  adore, — 
His  turban  wreath'd  of  gold,  and  white,  and  green, 
Musta:hes,  ear-ring,  nose-ring,  and  his  sabre  keen. 

XXXII. 

"  Does  not  your  master  give  a  rout  to-night  i' " 
Quoth  the  dark  page  ;  "  Oh,  no !  "  return'd  the  Swiss, 
"  Next  door  but  one  to  us,  upon  the  right, 
The  Magazin  des  Modes  now  open  is 
Against  the  Emperor's  wedding  ; — and  sir,  this 
My  master  finds  a  monstrous  horrid  bore  ; 
As  he  retired,  an  hour  ago  I  wis, 
With  his  best  beard  and  brimstone,  to  explore 
And  cast  a  quiet  figure  in  his  second  floor. 

XXXIII. 

"  Gad  !  he's  obliged  to  stick  to  business  ? 
For  chalk,  I  hear,  stands  at  a  pretty  price ; 


312  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 


And  as  for  aqua  vitae — there's  a  mess  ! 
The  denies  sapientics  of  mice 
Our  barber  tells  me  too  are  on  the  rise, — 
Tinder's  a  lighter  article, — nitre  pure 
Goes  off  like  lightning, — grains  of  Paradise 
At  an  enormous  figure  ! — stars  not  sure  ! — 
Zodiac  will  not  move  without  a  slight  douceur ! 


XXXIV. 

"  Venus  won't  stir  a  peg  without  a  fee, 
And  master  is  too  partial  entre  nous 
To—"  *'  Hush — hush ! "  cried  Eban,  "  sure  that  is  he 
Coming  down  stairs, — by  St.  Bartholomew  ! 
As  backwards  as  he  can, — is't  something  new  ? 
Or  is't  his  custom,  in  the  name  of  fun  ?  " 
"  He  always  comes  down  backward,with  one  shoe  " — 
Return'd  the  porter — "  off,  and  one  shoe  on, 
Like,  saving  shoe  for  sock  or  stocking,  my  man  John ! " 

XXXV. 

It  was  indeed  the  great  Magician, 
Feeling,  with  careful  toe,  for  every  stair, 
And  retrograding  careful  as  he  can, 
Backwards  and  downwards  from  his  own  two  pair  : 
"  Salpietro  !  "  exclaim'd  Hum,  "  is  the  dog  there  ? 
He's  always  in  my  way  upon  the  mat !  " 
"  He's  in  the  kitchen,  or  the  Lord  knows  where," — 
Replied  the  Swiss, — "  the  nasty,  whelping  brat !  " 
**  Don't  beat  him  !  "  returned  Hum,  and  on  the  floor 
came  pat. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  313 

H  ■  ■         ■  ■ — _^ 

XXXVI. 

Then  facing  right  about,  he  saw  the  Page, 
And  said  :  "  Don't  tell  me  what  you  want,  Eban  ; 
The  Emperor  is  now  in  a  huge  rage, — 
*Tis  nine  to  one  he'll  give  you  the  rattan  ! 
Let  us  away  !  "     Away  together  ran 
The  plain-dress'd  sage  and  spangled  blackamoor, 
Nor  rested  till  they  stood  to  cool,  and  fan. 
And  breathe  themselves   at  th'  Emperor's  chamber 
door, 
When  Eban  thought  he  heard  a  soft  imperial  snore. 

xxxvii. 

*'  I  thought  you  guess'd,  foretold,  or  prophesied, 
That's  Majesty  was  in  a  raving  fit." 
"  He  dreams,"  said  Hum,  "  or  I  have  ever  lied, 
That  he  is  tearing  you,  sir,  bit  by  bit." 
"  He's  not  asleep,  and  you  have  little  wit," 
Replied  the  Page,  "  that  little  buzzing  noise, 
Whatever  your  palmistry  may  make  of  it, 
Comes  from  a  play-thing  of  the  Emperor's  choice, 
From  a  Man-Tiger-Organ,  prettiest  of  his  toys." 

xxxviii. 

Eban  then  usher'd  in  the  learned  Seer : 
Elfinan's  back  was  turnd,  but,  ne'ertheless, 
Both,  prostrate  on  the  carpet,  ear  by  ear, 
Crept  silently,  and  waited  in  distress. 
Knowing  the  Emperor's  moody  bitterness; 
Eban  especially,  who  on  the  floor  'gan 
Tremble  and  quake  to  death, — he  feared  less 


314  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

A  dose  of  senna-tea,  or  nightmare  Gorgon, 
Than  the  Emperor  when  he  play'd  on  his  Man-Tiger- 
Organ. 


XXXIX. 

They  kiss'd  nine  times  the  carpet's  velvet  face 
Of  glossy  silk,  soft,  smooth,  and  meadow-green, 
Where  the  close  eye  in  deep  rich  fur  might  trace 
A  silver  tissue,  scantly  to  be  seen, 
As  daisies  lurk'd  in  June-grass,  buds  in  green  ; 
Sudden  the  music  ceased,  sudden  the  hand 
Of  majesty,  by  dint  ot  passion  keen, 
Doubled  into  a  common  fist,  went  grand, 
And  knock'd  down  three  cut  glasses,  and  his  best  ink- 
stand. 

XL. 

Then  turning  round,  he  saw  those  trembling  two : 
"  Eban,"  said  he,  "  as  slaves  should  taste  the  fruits 
Of  diligence,  I  shall  remember  you 
To-morrow,  or  next  day,  as  time  suits. 
In  a  finger  conversation  with  my  mutes, — 
Begone  ! — for  you,  Chaldean  !  here  remain  ; 
Fear  not,  quake  not,  and  as  good  wine  recruits 
A  conjurer's  spirits,  what  cup  will  you  drain  ? 
Sherry  in  silver,  hock  in  gold,  or  glass'd  champagne?" 

XLI. 

"  Commander  of  the  faithful !  "  answer'd  Hum, 
"  In  preference  to  these,  I'll  merely  taste 
A  thimble-full  of  old  Jamaica  rum." 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  315 

**  A  simple  boon  !  "  said  Elfinan,  "  thou  may'st 
Have    Nantz,    with    which    my    morning-coffee's 

laced."* 
"  I'll  havea  glass  of  Nantz,  then," — said  the  Seer, — 
"  Made  racy — (sure  my  boldness  is  misplaced!) — 
With  the  third  part — (yet  that  is  drinking  dear  !)— 
Of  the  least  drop  of  crhne  de  citroii  crystal  clear." 

XLII. 

*'  I  pledge  you,  Hum  !  and  pledge  my  dearest  love, 
My  Bertha  ! "     "  Bertha  !  Bertha  !  "  cried  the  sage, 
"  I  know  a  many  Berthas  !  "     "  Mine's  above 
All  Berthas !  "  sighed  the  Emperor.     "  I  engage," 
.  Said  Hum,  "  in  duty,  and  in  vassalage. 
To  mention  all  the  Berthas  in  the  earth  ; — 
There's  Bertha  Watson, — and  Miss  Bertha  Page, — 
This  famed  for  languid  eyes,  and  that  for  mirth, — 
There's  Bertha  Blount  of  York, — and  Bertha  Knox  of 
Perth." 

XLIII. 

"  You  seem  to  know" — "  I  do  know,"  answer'd  Hum, 

"Your Majesty's  in  love  with  some  fine  girl 

Named  Bertha ;  but  her  surname  will  not  come. 

Without  a  little  conjuring."     " 'Tis  Pearl, 

'Tis  Bertha  Pearl !  What  makes  my  brains  so  whirl  } 

And  she  is  softer,  fairer  than  her  name !  " 

**  Where  does  she  live  ?  "  ask'd  Hum.     "  Her  fair 

locks  curl 
So  brightly,  they  put  all  our  fays  to  shame  I  — 
Live  ! — 0  '  at  Canterbury,  with  her  old  grand-dame." 

•  "  Mr.  Nisby  is  of  opinion  that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for  the  head.'— ^(?^/a/(?r. 


3i6  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

XLIV. 

"  Good  !  good  !  "  cried  Hum,  "  I've  known  her  from 

a  child  ! 
She  is  a  changeling  of  my  management  ; 
She  was  born  at  midnight  in  an  Indian  wild  ; 
Her  mother's  screams  with  the  striped  tiger's  blent, 
While  the  torch-bearing  slaves  a  halloo  sent 
Into  the  jungles  ;  and  her  palanquin, 
Rested  amid  the  desert's  dreariment, 
Shook  with  her  agony,  till  fair  w^re  seen 
The  little  Bertha's  eyes  ope  on  the  stars  serene." 

XLV. 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  the  monarch,  "  that  may  be 
Just  as  it  happen'd,  true  or  else  a  bam ! 
Drink  up  your  brandy,  and  sit  down  by  me. 
Feel,  feel  my  pulse,  how  much  in  love  I  am ; 
And  if  your  science  is  not  all  a.  sham. 
Tell  me  some  means  to  get  the  lady  here." 
"  Upon  my  honor !  "  said  the  son  of  Cham,* 
"  She  is  my  dainty  changeling,  near  and  d'ear, 
Although  her  story  sounds  at  first  a  little  queer." 

XLVI. 

"Convey  her  to  me,  Hum,  or  by  my  crown, 

My  sceptre,  and  my  cross-surmounted  globe, 

I'll  knock  you — "     "  Does  your  majesty    mean — • 

down  ? 
No,  no,  you  never  could  my  feelings  probe, 
To  such  a  depth  !  '•'     The  Emperor  took  his  robe, 

*  Cham  is  said  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  magic.     Lucy  learnt  this  from 
Bayle's  Dictionary,  and  had  copied  a  long  Latin  note  from  that  work. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  317 


And  wept  upon  its  purple  palatine, 
While  Hum  continued,  shamming  half  a  sob, 
"  In  Canterbury  doth  your  lady  shine  ? 
But  let  me  cool  your  brandy  with  a  little  wine." 

XLVII. 

Whereat  a  narrow  Flemish  glass  he  took, 
That  since  belong'd  to  Admiral  De  Witt, 
Admired  it  with  a  connoisseuring  look, 
And  with  the  ripest  claret  crowned  it, 
And,  ere  the  lively  bead  could  burst  and  flit. 
He  turned  it  quickly,  nimbly  upside  down. 
His  mouth  being  held  conveniently  fit 
To  catch  the  treasure :  "  Best  in  all  the  town  !  " 
He  said,  smack'd  his  moist  lips,  and  gave  a  pleasant 
frown. 

XLVIII. 

"  Ah  !  good  my  Prince,  weep  not !  "  And  then  again 
He  fill'd  a  bumper.     ''  Great  sire,  do  not  weep ! 
Your  pulse  is  shocking,  but  I'll  ease  your  pain." 
Fetch  me  that  Ottoman,  and  prithee  keep 
Your  voice  low,"  said  the  Emperor,  "and  steep 
Some  lady's  fingers  nice  in  Candy  wine; 
And  prithee.  Hum,  behind  the  screen  do  peep 
For  the  rose  water  vase,  magician  mine ! 
And  sponge  my  forehead, — so  my  love  doth  make  me 
pine." 

XLIX. 

"  Ah,  cursed  Bellanaine  !  "     "  Don't  think  of  her," 
Rejoin'd  the  Mago,  "  but  on  Bertha  muse  ; 


3^8  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

For,  by  my  choicest  best  barometer, 
You  shall  not  throttled  be  in  marriage  noose  ; 
I've  said  it,  sire ;  you  only  have  to  choose 
Bertha  or  Bellanaine."     So  saying,  he  drew 
From  the  left  pocket  of  his  threadbare  hose, 
A  sampler  hoarded  slyly,  good  as  new. 
Holding  it  by  his  thumb  and  finger  full  in  view. 

"  Sire,  this  is  Bertha  Pearl's  neat  handy-work, 
Her  7iame,  see  here,  Midsummer,  ninety -one T 
Elfinan  snatch'd  it  with  a  sudden  jerk. 
And  wept  as  if  he  never  would  have  done, 
Honoring  with  royal  tears  the  poor  homespun  ; 
Whereon  were  broider'd  tigers  with  black  eyes, 
And  long-taird  pheasants,  and  rising  sun, 
Plenty  of  posies,  great  stags,  butterflies 
Bigger  than  stags, — a  moon, — with  other  mysteries. 

LI. 

The  monarch  handled  o'er  and  o'er  again 

These  day-school  hieroglyphics  with  a  sigh  ; 

Somewhat  in  sadness,  but  pleas'd  in  the  main, 

Till  this  oracular  couplet  met  his  eye 

Astounded, — Cupid,  I  do  thee  defy  ! 

It  was  too  much.     He  shrunk  back  in  his  chair, 

Grew  pale  as  death,  and  fainted — very  nigh  ! 

"  Pho  !  nonsense  !  "   exclaim'd  Hum,   "  now    don't 

despair ; 
She  does  not  mean  it  really,      Cheer  up,   hearty — 

there ! 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  3x9 

f  -  — • ' 

LIT. 

"  And  listen  to  my  words.     You  say  you  won't, 
On  any  terms,  marry  Miss  Bellanaine  ; 
It  goes  against  your  conscience — good  !  Well,  don't, 
You  say,  you  love  a  mortal.     I  would  fain 
Persuade  your  honor's  highness  to  refrain 
From  peccadilloes.     But,  sire,  as  I  say. 
What  good  would  that  do  ?   And,  to  be  more  plain, 
You  would  do  me  a  mischief  some  odd  day, 
Cut  off  my  ears  and  hands,  or  head  too,  by  my  fay ! 

LIII. 

"  Besides,  manners  forbid  that  I  should  pass  any 
Vile  strictures  on  the  conduct  of  a  prince 
Who  should  indulge  his  genius,  if  he  has  any, 
Not,  like  a  subject,  foolish  matters  mince. 
Now  I  think  on't,  perhaps  I  could  convince 
Your  majesty  there  is  no  crime  at  all 
In  loving  pretty  little  Bertha,  since 
She's  very  delicate, — not  over  tall, — 
A  fairy's  hand,  and  in  the  waist  why — very  small." 

LIV. 

"  Ring  the  repeater,  gentle  Hum  !  "     "  'Tis  five," 
Said  gentle  Hum  ;  "the  night  draws  in  apace ; 
The  little  birds  I  hear  are  all  alive ; 
I  see  the  dawning  touch'd  upon  your  face ; 
Shall  I  put  out  the  candles,  please  your  Grace  ? " 
"  Do  put  them  out,  and,  without  more  ado. 
Tell  me  how  I  may  that  sweet  girl  embrace, — 
How  you  can  bring  her  to  me."     "  That's  for  you, 
Great  Emperor !  to  adventure,  like  a  lover  true." 


320  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

LV. 

" I  fetch  her !  " — "  Yes,  an't  like  your  majesty; 
And  as  she  would  be  frighten'd  wide  awake, 
To  travel  such  a  distance  through  the  sky, 
Use  of  some  soft  manoeuvre  you  must  make, 
For  your  convenience,  and  her  dear  nerves'  sake ; 
Nice  way  would  be  to  bring  her  in  a  swoon, 
Anon,  ril  tell  what  course  were  best  to  take ; 
You  must  away  this  morning.''     "  Hum  !  so  soon  ? ' 
**  Sire,  you  must  be  in  Kent  by  tv/elve  o'clock  at  noon." 

LVI. 

At  this  great  Caesar  started  on  his  feet. 
Lifted  his  wings,  and  stood  attentive-wise. 
"Those  wings  to  Canterbury  you  must  beat, 
If  you  hold  Bertha  as  a  worthy  prize, 
Look  in  the  Almanac — Moore  never  lies — 
April  the  twenty-fourth, — this  coming  day, 
Now  breathing  its  new  bloom  upon  the  skies, 
Will  end  in  St  Mark's  eve ; — you  must  away 
For  on  that  eve  alone  can  you  the  maid  convey." 

LVII. 

Then  the  magician  solemnly  'gan  to  frown 
So  that  his  frost-white  eyebrows,  beetling  low. 
Shaded  his  deep  green  eyes,  and  wrinkles  brown 
.Plaited  upon  his  furnace-scorched  brow : 
Forth  from  his  hood  that  hung  his  neck  below, 
He  lifted  a  bright  casket  of  pure  gold, 
Touch'd  a  spring  lock,  and  there  in  wool  or  snow, 
Charm'd  into  ever  freezing,  lay  an  old 
Ard  legend-leaved  book,  mysterious  to  behold. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  32 1 


LVIII. 

"Take  this  same  book, — it  will  not  bite  you,  sire ; 
There,  put  underneath  your  royal  arm  ; 
Though  it's  a  pretty  weight,  it  will  not  tire, 
But  rather  on  your  journey  keep  you  warm  : 
This  is  the  magic,  this  the  potent  charm, 
That  shall  drive  Bertha  to  a  fainting  fit ! 
When  the  time  comes,  don't  feel  the  least  alarm, 
But  lift  her  from  the  ground,  and  swiftly  flit 
Back  to  your  palace.       #       *       *       * 


LIX. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  that  same  book  ?  "     "-  Why 

merely 
Lay  it  on  Bertha's  table,  close  beside 
Her  work-box,  and  'twill  help  your  purpose  dearly ; 
I  say  no  more."      "  Or  good  or  ill  betide, 
Through  the  wide  air  to  Kent  this  morn  I  glide !  '* 
Exclaim'd  the  Emperor,  "  When  I  return. 
Ask  what  you  will, — I'll  give  you  my  new  bride ! 
And  take  some  more  wine,  Hum  ; — O,  Heavens  !  I 

burn 
To   be   upon   the   wing !      Now,   now,  that   minx  I 

spurn  ! " 

LX. 

"  Leave  her  to  me,"  rejoined  the  magian  : 
"  But  how  shall  I  account,  illustrious  fay! 
For  thine  imperial  absence  ?  Pho  !  I  can 
Say  you  are  very  sick,  and  bar  the  way 

21 


32  2  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

To  your  so  loving  courtiers  for  one  day  ; 
If  either  of  their  two  Archbishops'  graces 
Should  talk  of  extreme  unction,  I  shall  say 
You  do  not  like  cold  pig  with  Latin  phrases, 
Which  never  should  be  used  but  in  alarming  cases.' 


LXI. 

"  Open  the  window,  Hum;  I'm  ready  now  !  " 
"  Zooks  !  "  exclaim'd  Hum,  as  up  the  sash  he  drew, 
"  Behold,  your  majesty,  upon  the  brow 
Of  yonder  hill,  what  crowds  of  people  i  "     *'  Where  ? 
The  monster's  always  after  something  new," 
Return'd  his  highness,  "  they  are  piping  hot 
To  see  my  pigsney  Bellanaine.     Hum  !  do 
Tighten  my  belt  a  little, — so,  so — not 
Too  tight, — the    book  ! — my  wand  ! — so,  nothing  is 
forgot." 

LXII. 

**  Wounds  !  how  they  shout !  "   said    Hum,  "  and 

there, — see,  see, 
Th'  ambassador's  returned  from  Pigmio  ! 
The  morning's  very  fine, — uncommonly  ! 
See,  past  the  skirts  of  yon  white  cloud  they  go, 
Tinsfins:  it  with  soft  crimsons  !     Now  below 
The  sable-pointed  heads  of  firs  and  pines 
They  dip,  move  on,  and  with  them  moves  a  glow 
Along  the  forest  side!     Now  amber  lines 
Reach   the  hill  top,  and  now  throughout  the  valley 
shines." 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  323 

LXIII. 

*' Why,  Hum,  you're  getting  quite  poetical! 
Those  nows  you  managed  in  a  special  style." 
"  If  ever  you  have  leisure,  sire,  you  shall 
See  scraps  of  mine  will  make  it  worth  your  while. 
Tit-bits  for  Phoebus  ! — yes,  you  well  may  smile. 
Hark  !'  hark  !  the  bells  !  "     "  A  little  further  yet, 
Good  Hum,  and  let  me  view  this  mighty  coil." 
Then  the  great  Emperor  full  graceful  set 
His  elbow  for  a  prop,  and  snuff' d  his  mignonette." 

LXIV. 

The  morn  is  full  of  holiday  ;  loud  bells 
With  rival  clamors  ring  from  every  spire ; 
Cunningly-station'd  music  dies  and  swells 
In  echoing  places  ;  when  the  winds  respire, 
Light  flags  stream  out  like  gauzy  tongues  of  fire  ; 
A  metropolitan  murmur,  lifeful,  warm. 
Comes  from  the  northern  suburbs  ;  rich  attire 
Freckles  with  red  and  gold  the  moving  swarm ; 
While  here  and  there  clear  trumpets  blow  a  keen 
alarm. 

LXV. 

And  now  the  fairy  escort  was  seen  clear. 

Like  the  old  pageant  of  Aurora's  train, 

Above  a  pearl-built  minster,  hovering  near ; 

First  wily  Crafticant,  the  chamberlain, 

Balanced  upon  his  gray-grown  pinions  twain 

His  slender  wand  officially  reveal'd  ; 

Then  black  gnomes  scattering  sixpences  like  rain  ; 


324  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 


Then  pages  three  and  three  ;  and  next,  slave  held, 
The  Imaian'  sutcheon  bright, — one  mouse  in  argent 
field. 


LXVI. 


Gentlemen  pensioners  next ;  and  after  them, 
A  troop  of  winged  Janizaries  flew  ; 
Then  slaves,  as  presents  bearing  many  a  gem ; 
Then  twelve  physicians  fluttering  two  and  two ; 
And  next  a  chaplain  in  a  cassock  new  ; 
Then  Lords  in  waiting ;  then  (what  head  not  reels 
For  pleasure  ?) — the  fair  Princess  in  fell  view. 
Borne  upon  wings,^and  very  pleased  she  feels 
To  have  such  splendor  dance  attendance  at  her  heels. 


LXVII. 


For  there  was  more  magnificence  behind  : 
She  waved  her  handkerchief.     ''  Ah,  very  grand  1  ' 
Cried  Elfinan,  and  closed  the  window-blind  ; 
"  And,  Hum,  we  must  not  shilly-shally  stand, — 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  I'm  off  for  Angle-land ! 
I  say,  old  Hocus,  have  you  such  a  thing 
About  you, — feel  your  pockets^,  I  command, — 
I  want,  this  instant,  an  invisible  ring, — 
Thank  you,  old  mummy  ! — now  securely  I  take  wing." 


LXVITI. 


Then  Elfinan  swift  vaulted  from  the  floor. 
And  lighted  graceful  on  the  window-sill ; 
Under  one  arm  the  magic  book  he  bore, 
The  other  he  could  wave  about  at  will . 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  325 


Pale  was  his  face,  he  still  look'd  very  ill  : 
He  bow'd  at  Bellanaine,  and  said — "  Poor  Bei/ ! 
Farewell  !    farewell !  and  if  forever  !  still 
Forever  fare  thee  well !  " — and  then  he  fell 
A  laughing  ! — snapp'd  his  fingers  ! — shame  it   is  to 
tell! 

LXIX. 

"  By'r  Lady  !  he  is  gone  !  "  cries  Hum,  "  and  I, — 
(I  own  it,) — have  made  too  free  with  his  wine ; 
Old  Crafticant  will  smoke  me,  by  the  bye  ! 
This  room  is  full  of  jewels  as  a  mine, — 
Dear  valuable  creatures,  how  ye  shine  ! 
Sometime  to-day  I  must  contrive  a  minute, 
If  Mercury  propitiously  incline, 
To  examine  his  scrutoire,  and  see  what's  in  it, 
For  of  superfluous  diamonds  I  as  well  may  thin  it. 

LXX. 

"  The  Emperor's  horrid  bad  ;  yes,  that's  my  cue ! " 
Some  histories  say  that  this  was  Hum's  last  speech  ; 
That,  being  fuddled,  he  went  reeling  through 
The  corridor,  and  scarce  upright  could  reach 
The  stair-head  ;  that  being  glutted  as  a  leach, 
And  used,  as  we  ourselves  have  just  now  said, 
To  manage  stairs  reversely,  like  a  peach 
Too  ripe,  he  fell,  being  puzzled  in  his  head 
With  liquor  and   the  staircase  :  v^xdXzX.— found  stone 
dead, 

LXXI. 

This,  as  a  falsehood,  Crafticanto  treats  ; 
And  as  his  style  is  of  strange  elegance, 


326  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

Gentle  and  tender,  full  of  soft  conceits, 
(Much  like  our  Boswell's),  we  will  take  a  glance 
At  his  sweet  prose,  and,  if  we  can,  make  dance 
His  woven  periods  into  careless  rhyme  ; 
C,  little  faery  Pegasus  !  rear — prance — 
Trot  round  the  quarto — ordinary  time  ! 
March,  little  Pegasus,  with  pawing  hoof  sublime ! 


LXXII. 

Well,  let  us  see, — tenth  book  and  chapter  nine, — . 
Thus  Crafticant  pursues  his  diary  : — 
'Twas  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  the  weatner  fine, 
Latitude  thirty-six  ;  our  scouts  descry 
A  flight  of  starlings  making  rapidly 
Tow'rds  Thibet.     Mem.  : — birds  fly  in  the  night; 
From  twelve  to  half-past — wings  not  fit  to  fly 
For  a  thick  fog — the  Princess  sulky  quite  : 
Call'd  for  an  extra  shawl,  and  gave  her  nurse  a  bite. 


LXXIII. 

Five  minutes  before  one — brought  down  a  moth 
With  my  new  double-barrel — stew'd  the  thighs, 
And  made  a  very  tolerable  broth  — 
Princess  turn'd  dainty,  to  our  great  surprise, 
Alter'd  her  mind,  and  thought  it  very  nice : 
Seeing  her  pleasant,  tried  her  with  a  pun, 
She  frown'd  ;  a  monstrous  owl  across  us  flies 
About  this  time, — a  sad  old  figure  of  fun  ; 
Bad  omen — this  new  match  can't  be  a  happy  one. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  327 

LXXIV. 

From  two  to  half-past,  dusky  way  we  made, 
Above  the  plains  of  Gobi, — desert,  bleak  ; 
Beheld  afar  off,  in  the  hooded  shade 
Of  darkness,  a  great  mountain  (strange  to  speak), 
Spitting,  from  forth  its  sulphur-baken  peak, 
A  fan-shaped  burst  of  blood-red,  arrowy  fire, 
Turban'd  with  smoke,  which  still  away  did  reek. 
Solid  and  black  from  that  eternal  pyre. 
Upon  the  laden  winds  that  scantly  could  respire. 

LXXV. 

Just  upon  three  o'clock,  a  falling  star 

Created  an  alarm  among  our  troop, 

Kill'd  a  man-cook,  a  page,  and  broke  a  jar, 

A  tureen,  and  three  dishes,  at  one  swoop. 

Then  passing  by  the  Princess,  singed  her  hoop  : 

Could  not  conceive  what  Coralline  was  at. 

She  clapp'd  her  hands  three  times,  and  cried  out 

"  Whoop !  " 
Some  strange  Imaian  custom.     A  large  bat 
Came  sudden  'fore  my  face,  and  brush'd  against  my 

hat. 

LXXVI, 

Five  minutes  thirteen  seconds  after  three, 
Far  in  the  west  a  mighty  fire  broke  out. 
Conjectured,  on  the  instant,  it  might  be 
The  city  of  Balk — 'twas  Balk  beyond  all  doubt : 
A  griflfin,  wheeling  here  and  there  about, 


328  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

Kept  reconnoitring  us — doubled  our  guard — > 
Lighted  our  torches,  and  kept  up  a  shout, 
Till  he  sheer'd  off — the  Princess  very  scared — 
And  many  on  their  marrow-bones  for  death  prepared. 

LXXVII. 

At  half -past  three  arose  the  cheerful  moon — 
Bivouac'd  for  four  minutes  on  a  cloud — 
Where  from  the  earth  we  heard  a  lively  tune 
Of  tambourines  and  pipes,  serene  and  loud, 
While  on  a  flowery  lawn  a  brilliant  crowd 
Cinque-parted  danced,  some  half  asleep  reposed 
Beneath  the  green-fan'd  cedars,  some  did  shroud 
In  silken  tents,  and  'mid  light  fragrance  dosed, 
Or  on  the  open  turf  their  soothed  eyelids  closed. 

LXXVIII. 

Dropp'd  my  gold  watch,  and  kill'd  a  kettle-drum- 
It  went  for  apoplexy — foolish  folks  ! — 
Left  it  to  pay  the  piper — a  good  sum — 
(I've  got  a  conscience,  maugre  people's  jokes,) 
To  scrape  a  little  favor  ;  'gan  to  coax 
Her  Highness'  pug-dog — got  a  sharp  rebuff — 
She  wish'd  a  game  at  whist — made  three  revokes — 
Turn'd  from  myself,  her  partner,  in  a  huff ; 
His  Majesty  will  know  her  temper  time  enough. 

LXXIX. 

She  cried  for  chess — I  play'd  a  game  with  her — 

Castled  her  king  with  such  a  vixen  look. 

It  bodes  ill  to  his  Majesty — (refer 

To  the  second  chapter  of  my  fortieth  book, 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  329 

And  see  what  hoity-toity  airs  she  took  :) 
At  half-past  four  the  morn  essay'd  to  beam — 
Saluted,  as  we  pass'd,  an  early  rook — 
The  Princess  fell  asleep,  and,  \\\  her  dream, 
Taik'd  of  one  Master  Hubert,  deep  in  her  esteem 

LXXX. 

About  this  time, — making  delightful  way, — 
Shed  a  quill-feather  from  my  larboard  wing — 
Wish'd,  trusted,  hoped  'twas  no  sign  of  decay — 
Thank   Heaven,   I'm   hearty  yet !  — 'twas  no  such 

thing : — 
At  five  the  golden  light  began  to  spring, 
With  fiery  shudder  through  the  bloomed  east ; 
At  six  we  heard  Panthea's  churches  rin^ — 
The  city  all  his  unhived  swarms  had  cast. 
To  watch  our  grand  approach,  and  hail  us  as  we  pass'd 

LXXXI. 

As  flowers  turn  their  faces  to  the  sun, 
So  on  our  flight  with  hungry  eyes  they  gaze, 
And,  as  we  shaped  our  course,  this,  that  way  run- 
With  mad-cap  pleasure,  or  hand-clasp'd  amaze  i 
Sweet  in  the  air  a  mild-toned  music  plays, 
And  progresses  through  its  own  labyrinth  ; 
Buds  gather'd  from  the  green  spring's  middle-days. 
They  scatter'd, — daisy,  primrose,  hyacinth, — 
Or  round  white  columns  wreath'd   from  capital  to 
■    plinth. 


330  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

LXXXI 

Onward  we  floa.eu  o'er  the  panting  streets, 
That  seem'd  throughout  with  upheld  faces  paved ; 
Look  where  we  will,  our  bird's-eye  vision  meets 
Legions  of  holiday  ;  bright  standards  waved, 
And  fluttering  ensigns  emulously  craved 
Our  minute's  glance;  a  busy  thunderous  roar, 
From  square  to  square,  among  the  buildings  raved, 
As  when  the  sea,  at  flow,  gluts  up  once  more 
The  craggy  hollowness  of  a  wild-reefed  shore. 

LXXXIII. 

And  "  Bellanaine  forever  !  "  shouted  they  ! 
While  that  fair  Princess,  from  her  winged  chair, 
Bow'd  low  with  high  demeanor,  and,  to  pay 
Their  new-blown  loyalty  with  guerdon  fair. 
Still  emptied,  at  meet  distance,  here  and  there, 
A  plenty  horn  of  jewels.     And  here  I 
(Who  wish  to  give  the  devil  her  due)  declare 
Against  that  ugly  piece  of  calumny,  [a  fly. 

Which  calls  them  Highland  pebble-stones  not  worth 

LXXXIV. 

Still  "  Bellanaine !  "  they  shouted,  while  we  glide 
'Slant  to  a  light  Ionic  portico. 
The  city's  delicacy,  and  the  pride 
Of  our  Imperial  Basilic  ;  a  row 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  on  each  hand,  make  show 
Submissive  of  knee-bent  obeisance. 
All  down  the  steps  ;  and,  as  we  enter'd,  lo  ! 
The  strangest  sight — the  most  unlook'd-for  chance — 
All  things  turn'd  topsy-turvy  in  a  devil's  dance. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS.  331 


LXXXV. 

'Stead  of  his  anxious  Majesty  and  court 
At  the  open  doors,  with  wide  saluting  eyes/ 
Cofigees  and  scrape-graces  of  every  sort, 
And  all  the  smooth  routine  of  gallantries, 
Was  seen,  to  our  immoderate  surprise, 
A  motley  crowd  thick  gather'd  in  the  hall, 
Lords,  scullions,  deputy  scullions,  with  wild  cries 
Stunning  the  vestibule  from  wall  to  wall,        [crawl. 
Where  the  Chief  Justice  on  his  knees  and  hands  doth 

LXXXVI. 

Counts  of  the  palace,  and  the  state  purveyor 
Of  moth's  down,  to  make  soft  the  royal  beds, 
The  Common  Council  ana  my  iool  Lord  Mayor 
Marching  a-row,  each  other  slipshod  treads  ; 
Powder' d  bag- wigs  and  ruffy-tuffy  heads 
Of  cinder  wenches  meet  and  soil  each  other ; 
Toe  crtish'd  with  heel  ill-natured  fighting  breeds^ 
Frill-rumpling  elbows  brew  up  many  a  bother, 
And  fists  in  the  short  ribs  keep  up  the  yell  and  pother. 

LXXXVII. 

A  Poet,  mounted  on  the  Court-Clown's  back. 
Rode  to  the  Princess  swift  with  spurring  heels, 
And  close  into  her  face,  with  rhyming  clack, 
Began  a  Prothalamion  ; — she  reels, 
She  falls,  she  faints  !  while  laughter  peals 
Over  her  woman's  weakness.  "  Where  !  "  cried  I, 
"  Where  is  his  Majesty  ?"    No  person  feels 
Inclined  to  answer  ;  wherefore  instantly 
I  plunged  into  the  crowd  to  find  him  or  to  die, 


332  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS. 

LXXXVIII. 

Jostling  my  way  I  gain'd  the  stairs,  and  ran 
To  the  first  landing,  where,  incredible ! 
I  met,  far  gone  in  liquor,  that  old  man, 

That  vile  impostor  Hum, 

So  far  so  well,- 
For  we  have  proved  the  Mago  never  fell 
Down  stairs  on  Crafticanto's  evidence  ; 
And  therefore  duly  shall  proceed  to  tell, 
Plain  in  our  own  original  mood  and  ter.  e. 
The  sequel  of  this  day,  though  labx*  'tis  M,Tv.':iseI 


</V<?  Jnorc  uas  "junttai ) 


OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


333 


OTHO    THE    GREAT 


A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


Otho  the  GKV.KTt  Emperor  of  Gerinany 
LuDOLPH,  his  Son. 
Conrad,  Duke  of  Franconia. 
Albert,  «  Knight  favored  by  Otho. 
SiGiFRED, ««  Officer,  friend  of  Ludolph. 
Theodore  ri«</ Gonfred,  Officers. 
Etheldert,  ail  Ahhot. 
Gersa,  Prince  of  Hungary. 


A  n  Hungarian  Captain, 

Physician. 

Pa(;e. 

Nodles,  Knights,  A  ttendaHis,&»Soltiiers, 

Erminia,  Niece  of  Otho. 
AuRANTHE.  Conrad's  Sister. 
Ladies  and  Attendants. 


SCBHB.—  TJie  Castle  of  Friedburg,  its  vicinity,  and  tk^  Hungarian  Camfib 
lilAU.—Otie  day. 

ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Ait  Apaftment  in  the  Castle, 

Enter.— Co'UKKD, 

So,  I  am  safe  emerged  from  these  broils  i 

Amid  the  wreck  of  thousands  I  am  whole ; 

For  every  crime  I  have  a  laurel-wreath, 

For  every  lie  a  lordship.     Nor  yet  has 

My  ship  of  fortune  furl'd  her  silken  sails, — 

Let  her  glide  on  !     This  danger'd  neck  is  saved. 

By  dexterous  policy,  from  the  rebels'  axe ; 

And  of  my  ducal  palace  not  one  stone 

Is  bruised  by  the  Hungarian  petards. 

Toil  hard,  ye  slaves,  and  from  the  miser-earth 

Bring  forth  once  more  my  bullion,  treasured  deep, 

With  all  my  jewelld  salvers,  silver  and  gold, 


334  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

■  < 

And  precious  goblets  that  make  rich  the  wine. 
But  why  do  I  stand  babbling  to  myself  ? 
Where  is  Auranthe  ?    I  have  news  for  her 
Shall— 

Enter  AuRANTHE. 

Auranthe.  Conrad  !  what  tidings  ?     Good,  if  I  may 
guess 
From  your  alert  eyes  and  high-lifted  brows. 
What  tidings  of  the  battle  ?     Albert  ?     Ludolph  ? 
Otho  ? 

Conrad.  You  guess  aright.  And,  sister,  slurring  o*er 
Our  by-gone  quarrels,  I  confess  my  heart 
Is  beating  with  a  child's  anxiety. 
To  make  our  golden  fortune  known  to  you. 

Auranthe.  So  serious.'* 

Conrad.  Yes,  so  serious,  that  before 

1  utter  even  the  shadow  of  a  hint 
Concerning  what  will  make  that  sin-worn  cheek 
Blush  joyous  blood  through  every  lineament, 
You  must  make  here  a  solemn  vow  to  me. 

Auranthe.  I  pr'ythee,  Conrad,  do  not  overact 
The  hypocrite.     What  vow  would  yon  impose  ? 

Conrad.     Trust  me   for   once.     That  you   may  be 
assured 
'Tis  not  confiding  ina  broken  reed, 
A  poor  court-bankrupt,  outwitted  and  lost, 
Revolve  these  facts  in  your  acutest  mood, 
In  such  a  mood  as  now  you  listen  to  me: 
A  few  days  since,  I  was  an  open  rebel, — 
Against  the  Emperor  had  suborn'd  his  son,- — 
Drawn  off  his  nobles  to  revolt, — and  shown 
Contented  fools  causes  for  discontent, 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  33$ 


Fresh  hatch'd  in  my  ambition's  eagle-nest ; 
So  thrived  I  as  a  rebel, — and,  behold  ! 
Now  I  am  Otho's  favorite,  his  dear  friend, 
His  right  hand,  his  brave  Conrad ! 

Aurafithe.  I  confess 

You  have  intrigued  with  these  unsteady  times 
To  admiration.     But  to  be  a  favorite  ! 

Co7irad.  I  saw  my  moment.     The  Hungarians, 
Collected  silently  in  holes  and  corners, 
Appear'd,  a  sudden  host,  in  the  open  day. 
I  should  have  perish'd  in  our  empire's  wreck, 
But,  calling  interest  loyalty,  swore  faith 
To  most  believing  Otho ;  and  so  help'd 
His  blood-stain'd  ensigns  to  the  victory 
In  yesterday's  hard  fight,  that  it  has  turned 
The  edge  of  his  sharp  wrath  to  eager  kindness. 

Aiiranthc.   So  far  yourself.     But  what  is  this  to  me 
More  than  that  I  am  glad }     I  gratulate  you. 

Conrad.  Yes,  sister,  but  it  docs  regard  you  greatly. 
Nearly,  momentously, — aye,  painfully  ! 
Make  me  this  vow — 

Aiiranthe.  Concerning  whom  or  what  ? 

Conrad.  Albert ! 

Auranthe.  I  would  inquire  somewhat  of  him  : 

You  had  a  letter  from  me  touching  him } 
No  treason  'gainst  his  head  in  deed  or  word! 
Surely  you  spared  him  at  my  earnest  prayer } 
Give  me  the  letter — it  should  not  exist ! 

Cojirad.  At  one  pernicious  charge  of  the  enemy, 
I,  for  a  moment-whiles,  was  prisoner  ta'en 
And  rifled, — stu^  !  the  horses'  hoofs  have  minced  it  I 

Auranthe.  He  is  alive } 


33^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Conrad.  He  is  !  but  here  make  oath 
To  aHenate  him  from  your  scheming  brain, 
Divorce  him  from  your  soHtary  thoughts, 
And  cloud  him  in  such  utter  banishment. 
That  when  his  person  meets  again  your  eye, 
Your  vision  shall  quite  lose  its  memory, 
And  wander  past  him  as  through  vacancy. 

AnrantJic.  I'll  not  be  perjured. 

Conrad.  No,  nor  great,  nor  mighty ; 

You  would  not  wear  a  crown,  or  rule  a  kingdom. 
To  you  it  is  indifferent. 

Auranthe.  What  means  this  ? 

Conrad.  You'll  not  be  perjured!  Go  to  Albert  then. 
That  camp-mushroom — dishonor  of  our  house. 
Go,  page  his  dusty  heels  upon  a  march, 
Furbish  his  jingling  baldric  while  he  sleeps. 
And  share  his  mouldy  ration  in  a  siege. 
Yet  stay, — perhaps  a  charm  may  call  you  back. 
And  make  the  widening  circlets  of  your  eyes 
Sparkle  with  healthy  fevers. — The  Emperor 
Hath  given  consent  that  you  should  marry  Ludolph! 

Auranthe.  Can  it  be,  brother }    For  a  golden  crown 
With  a  queen's  awful  lips  I  doubly  thank  you ! 
This  is  to  wake  in  Paradise  !     Farewell 
Thou  clod  of  yesterday, — 'twas  not  myself ! 
Not  till  this  moment  did  I  ever  feel 
My  spirit's  faculties  !     I'll  flatter  you 
For  this,  and  be  you  ever  proud  of  it; 
Thou,  Jove-like,  struck'dst  thy  forehead, 
And  from  the  teeming  marrow  of  thy  brain 
I  spring  complete  Minerva!     But  the  prince — 
His  Highness  Ludolph — where  is  he  ? 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  337 

Co7trad.  I  know  not : 

When,  lackeying  my  counsel  at  a  beck, 
The  rebel  lords,  on  bended  knees,  received 
The  Emperor's  pardon,  Ludolph  kept  aloof, 
Sole,  in  a  stiff,  foolhardy,  sulky  pride  ; 
Yet,  for  all  this,  I  never  saw  a  father 
In  such  a  sickly  longing  for  his  son. 
We  shall  soon  see  him,  for  the  Emperor 
He  will  be  here  this  morning. 

Alt  rail  the.  That  I  heard 

Among  the  mianight  rumors  from  the  camp. 

Conrad.  You  give  up  Albert  to  me  ? 

Aiiranthe.  Harm  him  not  I 

E'en  for  his  highness  Ludolph's  sceptry  hand, 
I  would  not  Albert  suffer  any  wrong. 

Conrad.  Have  I  not  labor'd,  plotted —  "i 

Atiranthe.  See  you  spare  him: 

Nor  be  pathetic,  my  kind  benefactor ! 
On  all  the  many  bounties  of  your  hand, — 
*Twas  for  yourself  you  labored — not  for  me ! 
Do  you  not  count,  when  I  am  queen,  to  take 
Advantage  of  your  chance  discoveries 
Of  mv  poor  secrets,  and  so  hold  a  rod 
Over  my  life  } 

Conrad.  Let  not  this  slave — this  villain — 

Be  cause  of  feud  between  us.     See  !  he  comes  i 
Look,  woman,  look,  your  Albert  is  quite  safe! 
In  haste  it  seems.     Now  shall  I  be  in  the  way, 
And  wish'd  with  silent  curses  in  my  grave, 
Or  side  by  side  with  'whelmed  mariners. 

22 


23^  OTHO  THE  GREAT, 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert.  Fair  on  your  graces  fall  this  early,  morrow 
So  it  is  like  to  do,  without  my  prayers, 
For  your  right  noble  names,  like  favorite  tunes, 
Have  fallen  frequent  from  our  Emperor's  lips, 
High  commented  with  smiles. 

Atiranthe.  Noble  Albert  I 

Conrad  {aside).  Noble ! 

Aiiraiithe.  Such  salutation  argues  a  glad  heart 
In  our  prosperity.     We  thank  you,  sir. 

Albert,  Lady  I 

O,  would  to  Heaven  your  poor  servant 
Could  do  you  better  service  than  mere  words ! 
But  I  have  other  greeting  than  mine  own, 
From  no  less  man  than  Otho,  who  has  sent 
This  ring  as  pledge  of  dearest  amity  ; 
*Tis  chosen  I  hear  from  Hymen's  jewelry. 
And  you  will  prize  it,  lady,  I  doubt  not. 
Beyond  all  pleasures  past,  and  all  to  come. 
To  you  great  duke — 

Conrad,  To  me  !     What  of  me,  ha  ? 

Albert.  What  pleased  your  grace  to  say  ? 

Conrad.  Your  message,  sir  I 

A  Ibert.  You  mean  not  this  to  me  .•* 

Conrad.  Sister,  this  way ; 

For  there  shall  be  no  "  gentle  Alberts  "  now,  {Aside, 
No  "sweet  Auranthes  !  " 

[Exeunt  Conrad  and  Auranthe, 

Albert  (solus).     The  duke  is  out  of  temper  ;  if  he 
knows 
More  than  a  brother  of  a  sister  ought, 


^CrnO  THE  GREAT.  339 

£  should  not  quarrel  with  his  peevishness. 

Auranthe — Heaven  preserve  her  always  fair  ! — 

Is  in  the  heady,  proud,  ambitious  vein  ; 

I  bicker  not  with  her, — bid  her  farewell ! 

She  has  taken  flight  from  me,  then  let  her  soar, — 

He  is  a  fool  who  stands  at  pining  gaze ! 

But  for  poor  Ludolph,  he  is  food  for  sorrow : 

No  levelling  bluster  of  my  licensed  thoughts, 

No  military  swagger  of  my  mind. 

Can  smother  from  myself  the  wrong  I've  done  him,— 

Without  design,  indeed, — yet  it  is  so, — 

And  opiate  for  the  conscience  have  I  none  ! 

{Exit. 


Scene  II. — The  Cotirt-yard  of  the  Castle. 

Martial  Music.     Enter,  from  the  outer  gate,  Othc»,  Nobles,  Knights,  and 
Attendants.     The  Soldiers  halt  at  the  gate,  with  Bamurs  in  sight. 

Otho.  'Where  is  my  noble  Herald } 

[Enter  CoNKAD,  from  the  Castle,  attended  by  tivo  Knights  and  Servants 

Alu  e  rt  following. 

Well,  hast  told 
Auranthe  our  intent  imperial } 
Lest  our  rent  banners,  too  o'  the  sudden  shown, 
Should  fright  her  silken  casements,  and  dismay 
Her  household  to  our  lack  of  entertainment. 
A  victory  ! 

Conrad.  God  save  illustrious  Otho  ! 

Otho    Aye,  Conrad,  it  will  pluck  out  all  gray  hairs ; 
It  is  the  best  physician  for  the  spleen ; 
The  courtliest  inviter  to  a  feast ; 


340  OTHO  THE  GREAT.  , 

The  subtlest  excuser  of  '-mall  faults ; 

And  a  nice  judge  in  the  age  and  smack  of  wine. 

{Enter,  from  the  Castle,  Kurxwyhf.,  followed  by  Pages,  holding  up  her 
robes,  and  a  train  of  Women.     She  kneels. 

Hail  my  sweet  hostess  !     I  do  thank  the  stars, 

Or  my  good  soldiers,  or  their  ladies'  eyes, 

That,  after  such  a  merry  battle  fought, 

I  can,  all  safe  in  body  and  in  soul, 

Kiss  your  fair  hand  and  lady  fortune's  too. 

My  ring  !  now,  on  my  life,  it  doth  rejoice 

These  lips  to  feel't  on  this  soft  ivory ! 

Keep  it,  my  brightest  daughter  ;  it  may  prove 

The  little  prologue  to  a  lino  of  kings. 

I  strove  against  thee  and  my  hot-blood  son^ 

Dull  blockhead  that  I  was  to  be  so  blind. 

But  now  my  sight  is  clear ;  forgive  me,  lady. 

Aitranthe.  My  lord,  I  was  a  vassal  to  your  frown, 
And  now  your  favor  makes  me  but  more  humble  : 
In  wintry  winds  the  simple  snow  is  safe. 
But  fadeth  at  the  greeting  of  the  sun : 
Unto  thine  anger  I  might  well  have  spoken. 
Taking  on  me  a  woman's  privilege, 
But  this  so  sudden  kindness  makes  me  dumb. 

Otho.  What  need  of  this  ?     Enough,  if  you  will  be 
A  potent  tutoress  to  my  wayward  boy. 
And  teach  him,  what  it  seems  his  nurse  could  not, 
To  say,  for  once,  I  thank  you.     Sigifred  ! 

Albett.  He  has  not  yet  returned,  my  gracious  liege. 

Otho.  What  then  !  No  tidings  of  my  friendly  Arab  ? 

Conrad,  None,  mighty  Otho. 

\To  07ie  of  his  Knights  who  goes  out. 


OTHO   THE  GREAT.  341 

Send  forth  instantly 
An  hundred  horsemen  from  my  honored  gates, 
To  scour  the  plains  and  search  the  cottages. 
Cry  a  reward,  to  him  who  shall  first  bring 
News  of  that  vanished  Arabian, 
A  full-heaped  helmet  of  the  purest  gold. 

OtJio.  More  thanks,  good  Conrad  ;  for,  except  my 
son's. 
There  is  no  face  I  rather  would  behold 
Than  that  same  quick-eyed  pagan's.     By  the  saints, 
This  coming  night  of  banquets  must  not  light 
Her  dazzling  torches  ;  nor  the  music  breathe 
Smooth,  without  clashing  cymbal,  tones  of  peace 
And  in-door  melodies  ;  nor  the  ruddy  wine 
Ebb  spouting  to  the  lees  ;  if  I  pledge  not. 
In  my  first  cup,  that  Arab! 

Albert.  Mighty  Monarch, 

I  wonder  not  this  stranger's  victor  deeds 
So  hang  upon  your  spirit.     Twice  in  the  fight 
It  was  my  chance  to  meet  his  olive  brow, 
Triumphant  in  the  enemy's  shatter'd  rhomb ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  in  any  Christian  arm 
I  never  saw  such  prowess. 

Otho.  Did  you  ever  ? 

0,  'tio  a  noble  boy  ! — tut — what  do  I  say  } 

1.  mean  a  triple  Saladin,  whose  eyes, 
When  in  the  glorious  scuffle  they  met  mine, 
Seem'd  to  say — "  Sleep,  old  man,  in  safety  sleep ; 
1  am  the  victory  ! " 

Conrad.  Pity  he's  not  here. 

OtJio.  And  my  son  too,  pity  he  is  not  here. 
Lady  Auranthe  I  would  not  make  you  blush, 


34-2  077/(9  THE  GREAT. 

But  can  you  give  a  guess  where  Ludolph  is  ? 
Know  you  not  of  him  ? 

Auranthe.  Indeed,  my  liege,  no  secret — 

OtJio    Nay,  nay,  without  more  words,  dost  know  of 
him  ? 

Anrajithe.  I  would  I  were  so  over-fortunate, 
Both  for  his  sake  and  mine,  and  to  make  glad 
A  father's  ears  with  tidings  of  his  son. 

Otho.  I  see  'tis  like  to  be  a  tedious  day. 
Where  Theodore  and  Gonfred  and  the  rest 
Sent  forth  with  my  commands  } 

Albert.  Aye,  my  lord. 

OtJio.  And  no  news  !  No  news  !     'Faith  !  'tis  very 
strange 
He  thus  avoids  us.     Lady,  is't  not  strange.? 
Will  he  be  truant  to  you  too }     It  is  a  shame. 

Conrad.    Wilt    please     your    highness  enter,    and 
accept 
The  unworthy  welcome  of  your  servant's  hpuse  ? 
Leaving  your  cares  to  one  whose  diligence 
May  in  few  hours  make' pleasures  of  them  all. 

Otho.  Not  so  tedious,  Conrad.     No,  no,  no, — 
I  must  see  Ludolph  or  the — What's  that  shout .? 

Voices   without.    Huzza !    huzza !      Long   live   the 
Emperor ! 

Other  voices.  Fall  back  !     Away  there  ! 

Otho.  Say  what  noise  is  that } 

[Albert  advancing  fro77i  the  back  of  the  Stage,  whither  he   had  hastened 
on  hearing  the  cheers  of  the  soldiery. 

Albert.  It  is  young  Gersa,  the  Hungarian  prince, 
Pick'd  like  a  red  stag  from  the  fallow  herd 
Of  prisoners.     Poor  prince,  forlorn  he  steps, 


OTHO  THE  GREAJ  343 

Slow,  and  demure,  and  proud  in  his  despair. 
If  I  may  judge  by  his  so  tragic  bearing, 
His  eye  not  downcast,  and  his  folded  arm, 
He  doth  this  moment  wish  himself  asleep 
Among  his  fallen  captains  on  yon  plains. 

Enter  Gersa  in  chains,  and  guarded^ 

Otho.   Well  said.  Sir  Albert. 

Gersa.  Not  a  word  of  greeting, 

No  welcome  to  a  princely  visitor, 
Most  mighty  Otho  ?     Will  not  my  great  host 
Vouchsafe  a  syllable,  before  he  bids 
His  gentlemen  conduct  me  with  all  care 
To  some  securest  lodging — cold  perhaps  ! 

OtJio.  What  a  mood  is  this  ?     Hath  fortune  touch'd 
thy  brain  } 

Gersa.  O  kings  and  princes  of  this  fevVous  world, 
What  abject  things,  what  mockeries  must  ye  be, 
Whal  nerveless  minions  of  safe  palaces  ! 
When  here,  a  monarch,  whose  proud  foot  is  used 
To  fallen  princes'  necks,  as  to  his  stirrup, 
Must  needs  exclaim  that  I  am  mad  forsooth, 
Because  I  cannot  flatter  with  bent  knees 
My  conqueror  ! 

OtJio.  Gersa,  I  think  you  wrong  me : 

I  think  I  have  a  better  fame  abroad. 

Gersa.     I  pr'ythee  mock  me  not  with  gentle  speech, 
But,  as  a  favor,  bid  me  from  thy  presence  ; 
Let  me  no  longer  be  the  wondering  food 
Of  all  these  eyes  ;  pr'ythee  command  me  hence  ! 

Otho.  Do  not  mistake  me,  Gersa.     That  you  may- 
not 


344  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Come,  fair  Auranthe,  try  if  your  soft  hands 
Can  manage  those  hard  rivet?  to  set  fre^ 
So  brave  a  prince  and  soldier 

Auranthe  {sets  Juinfrce).  Welcome  task! 

Gersa.  I  am  wound  up. in  deep  astonishment! 
Thank  you,  fair  lady,     Otho  !    emperor  ! 
You  rob  me  of  myself  ;  my  dignity 
Is  now  your  infant  ;  I  am  a  weak  child. 

Otho.     Give  mc  your  hand,   and   let  this   kindly 
grasp 
Live  in  our  memories. 

Gersa.  In  mine  it  will. 

I  blush  to  think  of  my  unchasten'd  tongue; 
But  I  was  haunted  by  the  monstrous  ghost 
Of  all  our  slain  battalions.     Sire,  reflect, 
And  pardon  you  will  grant,  that,  as  this  hour, 
The  bruised  remnants  of  our  stricken  camp 
Are  huddling  undistinguished,  my  dear  friends, 
With  common  thousands,  into  shallow  graves. 

Otho.  Enough,  most  noble  Gersa.     You  are  free 
To  cheer  the  brave  remainder  of  your  host 
By  your  own  healing  presence,  and  that  too. 
Not  as  their  leader  merely,  but  their  king  ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  wily  enemy, 
Who  eas'd  the  crownet  from  your  infant  brows, 
Bloody  Taraxa,  is  among  the  dead. 

Gersa.    Then  I  retire,  so  generous  Otho  please, 
Bearing  with  me  a  weight  of  benefits 
Too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

Otho.  It  is  not  so  ; 

Still  understand  me.  King  of  Hungary, 
Nor  judge  my  open  purposes  awry. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  345 

Though  I  did  hold  you  high  in  my  esteem 

For  your  self's  sake,  I  do  not  personate 

The  stage-play  emperor  to  entrap  applause, 

To  set  the  silly  sort  o'  the  world  agape, 

And  make  the  politic  smile  ;   no,  I  have  heard 

How  in  the  Council  you  condemn'd  this  war, 

Urging  the  perfidy  of  broken  faith, — 

For  that  I  am  your  friend. 

Get'sa.  If  ever,  sire, 

You  are  my  enemy,  I  dare  here  swear 

'Twill  not  be  Gersa's  fault.     Otho,  farewell ! 

Otho.  Will  you  return.  Prince,  to  our  banqueting  ? 

Gersa.  As  to  my  father's  board  I  will  return. 

Otho.  Conrad,  with  all  due  ceremony,  give 
The  prince  a  regal  escort  to  his  camp  ; 
Albert,  go  thou  and  bear  him  company. 
Gersa,  farewell ! 

Gersa.  All  happiness  attend  you ! 

OtJio.  Return  with  what  good  speed  you  may ;  for 
soon 
We  must  consult  upon  our  terms  of  peace. 

\_Exeunt  Gersa  and  Albert  with  others. 
And  thus  a  marble  column  do  I  build 
To  prop  my  empire's  dome.     Conrad,  in  thee 
I  have  another  steadfast  one  to  uphold 
The  portals  of  my  state  ;    and,  for  my  own 
Pre-eminence  and  safety,  I  will  strive 
To  keep  thy  strength  upon  its  pedestal. 
For,  without  thee,  this  day  I  might  have  been 
A  show-monster  about  the  streets  of  Prague, 
In  chains,  as  just  now  stood  that  noble  prince : 
And  then  to  me  no  mercy  had  been  shown, 


346  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

For  when  the  conquer'd  lion  is  once  dungeonea, 

Who  lets  him  forth  again  ?  or  dares  to  give 

An  old  lion  sugar-cakes  of  mild  reprieve  ? 

Not  to  thine  ear  alone  I  make  confession, 

But  to  all  here,  as,  by  experience, 

I  know  how  the  great  basement  of  all  power 

Is  frankness,  and  a  true  tongue  to  the  world  ; 

And  how  intriguing  secresy  is  proof 

Of  fear  and  weakness,  and  a  hollow  state, 

Conrad,  I  owe  thee  much. 

Conrad.  To  kiss  that  hand, 

My  emperor,  is  ample  recompense. 
For  a  mere  act  of  duty. 

Otho.  Thou  art  wrong; 

For  what  can  any  man  on  earth  do  more  ? 
We  will  make  trial  of  your  house's  welcome. 
My  bright  Auranthe  ! 

Conrad.  How  is  Friedburg  honored  ! 

Enter  Ethelbert  and  six  Monks. 

Ethelbent.  The  benison  of  heaven  on  your  head, 
Imperial  Otho ! 

Otho.  Who  stays  me  ?  Speak  !  Quick  \ 

Ethelbert.  Pause  but  one  moment,  mighty  conqueror! 
Upon  the  threshold  of  this  house  of  joy. 

Otho.  Pray,  do  not  prose,  good  Ethelbert,  but  speak 
What  is  your  purpose. 

Ethelbert.  The  restoration  of  some  captive  maids, 
Devoted  to  Heaven's  pious  ministries, 
Who,  driven  forth  from  their  religious  cells. 
And  kept  in  thraldom  by  our  enemy, 
When  late  this  province  was  a  lawless  spoil. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  347 

Still  weep  amid  the  wild  Hungarian  camp, 
Though  hemm'd  around  by  thy  victorious  arms. 

OtJio.  Demand  the  holy  sisterhood  in  our  name 
From  Gersa's  tents.     Farewell,  old  Ethelbert, 

Ethelbert.  The  saints  will  bless  you  for  this  pious 

care. 
Otho.  Daughter,  your  hand  ;  Ludolph's  would  fit  it 

best. 
Conrad.  Ho  !  let  the  music  sound  ! 

\Music.     Ethelbert  raises  his  hands,  as  in  benediction  of  Otho. 
Exeunt  severally.     The  scene  closes  on  them. 

Scene  HI.^ — The  Country,  ivith  the  Castle  in  the 

distance. 

Enter  LuDOLPH  and  SiGlFRED. 

Ltidolph.  You  have  my  secret ;  let  it  not  be  breath'd. 

Sigifred.  Still  give    me  leave  to  wonder  that  the 
prince, 
Ludolph,  and  the  swift  Arab  are  the  same  ; 
Still  to  rejoice  that  'twas  a  German  arm 
Death  doing  in  a  turban'd  masquerade. 

LndolpJi.  The  emperor  must  not  know  it,  Sigifred. 

Sigifred.  I  pr'ythee,  why?     What  happier  hour  of 
time 
Could  thy  pleased  star  point  down  upon  from  heaven 
With  silver  index,  bidding  thee  make  peace  ? 

Ludolph.  Still  it  must  not  be  known,  good  Sigifred  ; 
The  star  may  point  oblique. 

Sigifred.  If  Otho  knew 

His  son  to  be  that  unknown  Mussulman, 
After  whose  spurring  heels  he  sent  me  forth, 


348  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


With  one  of  his  well-pleased  Olympian  oaths, 
The  charters  of  man's  greatness,  at  this  hour 
He  would  be  watching  round  the  castle  walls, 
And,  like  an  anxious  warder,  strain  his  sight 
For  the  first  glimpse  of  such  a  son  return'd — 
Ludolph,  that  blast  of  the  Hungarians, 
That  Saracenic  meteor  of  the  fight, 
That  silent  fury,  whose  fell  cimeter 
Kept  danger  all  aloof  from  Otho's  head, 
And  left  him  space  for  wonder. 

Lttdolph.  Say  no  more 

Not  as  a  swordsman  would  I  pardon  claim, 
But  as  a  son.     The  bronzed  centurion, 
Long  toil'd  in  foreign  wars,  and  whose  high  deeds 
Are  shaded  in  a  forest  of  tall  spears. 
Known  only  to  his  troop,  hath  greater  plea 
Of  favor  with  my  sire  than  I  can  have. 

Sigifred.  My  lord,  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  see 
How  this  proud  temper  with  clear  reason  squares. 
What  made  you  then,  with  such  an  anxious  love, 
Hover  around  that  life,  whose  bitter  days. 
You  vexed  with  bad  revolt  ?    Was't  opium. 
Or  the  mad-fumed  wine  ?     Nay,  do  not  frown, 
I  rather  would  grieve  with  you  than  upbraid. 

Ludolph.  I  do  believe  you.     No,  'twas  not  to  make 
A  father  his  son's  debtor,  or  to  heal 
His  deep  heart-sickness  for  a  rebel  child. 
'Twas  done  in  memory  of  my  boyish  days, 
Poor  cancel  for  his  kindjiess  to  my  youth, 
For  all  his  calming  of  my  childish  griefs, 
And  all  his  smiles  upon  my  merriment. 
No,  not  a  thousand  foughten  fields  could  sponge 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  349 

Those  days  paternal  from  my  memory, 
Though  now  upon  my  head  he  heaps  disgrace. 
Sigifred,  My  prince,  you  think  too  harshly — 
Ludo/ph.  Can  I  so  ? 

Hath  he  not  gall'd  my  spirit  to  the  quick  ? 
And  with  a  sullen  rigor  obstinate 
Pour'd  out  a  phial  of  wrath  upon  my  faults  ? 
Hunted  me  as  the  Tartar  does  the  boar, 
Driven  me  to  the  very  edge  o'  the  world, 
And  almost  put  a  price  upon  my  head  ? 

Sigifred.  Remember  how  he  spared  the  rebel  lords 
LudolpJi.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  hath  a  noble  nature 
That  cannot  trample  on  the  fallen.     But  his 
Is  not  the  only  proud  heart  in  his  realm. 
He  hath  wrong'd  me,  and  I  have  done  him  wrong ; 
He  hath  loved  me,  and  I  have  shown  him  kindness  ; 
We  should  be  almost  equal. 

Sigifred.  Yet,  for  all  this, 

I  would  you  had  appear'd  among  those  lords, 
And  ta'en  his  favor. 

Lndolph.  Ha  !  till  now  I  thought 

My  friend  had  held  poor  Ludolph's  honor  dear. 
What  !  wou/d  you  have  me  sue  before  his  throne 
And  kiss  the  courtier's  missal,  its  silk  steps  ? 
Or  hug  the  golden  housings  of  his  steed. 
Amid  a  camp,  whose  steeled  swarms  I  dared 
But  yesterday  ?    And,  at  the  trumpet  sound, 
Bow  like  some  unknown  mercenary's  flag 
And  lick  the  soiled  grass  t    No,  no,  my  friend, 
I  would  not,  I,  be  pardon'd  in  the  heap. 
And  bless  indemnity  with  all  that  scum, — 
Those  men  I  mean,  who  on  my  shoulders  propp'd 


350  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


Their  weak  rebellion,  winning  me  with  lies, 
And  pitying  forsooth  my  many  wrongs  ; 
Poor  self-deceived  wretches,  who  must  think 
Each  one  himself  a  king  in  embryo, 
Because  some  dozen  vassals  cry'd — my  lord ! 
Cowards,  who  never  knew  their  little  hearts, 
Till  flurried  danger  held  the  mirror  up, 
And  then  they  own'd  themselves  without  a  blush, 
Curling,  like  spaniels,  round  my  father'  feet. 
Such  things  deserted  me  and  are  forgiven. 
While  I,  least  guilty,  am  an  outcast  still. 
And  will  be,  for  I  love  such  fair  disgrace. 

Sigifred.  I  know  the  clear  truth  ;  so  would  Otho  see, 
For  he  is  just  and  noble.     Fain  would  2 
Be  pleader  for  you — 

Ludolph.  He'll  hear  none  of  it; 

You  know  his  temper,  hot,  proud,  obstinate ; 
Endanger  not  yourself  so  uselessly. 
I  will  encounter  his  thwart  spleen  myself. 
To-day,  at  the  Duke  Conrad's,  where  he  keeps 
His  crowded  state  after  the  victory. 
There  will  I  be,  a  most  unwelcome  guest, 
And  parley  with  him,  as  a  son  should  do. 
Who  doubly  loathes  a  father's  tyranny  ; 
Tell  him  how  feeble  is  ^hat  tyranny ; 
How  the  relationship  of  father  and  son 
Is  no  more  valid  than  a  silken  leash 
Where  lions  tug  adverse,  if  love  grow  not 
From  interchanged  love  through  many  years. 
Ay,  and  those  turreted  Franconian  walls. 
Like  to  a  jealous  casket,  hold  my  pearl — 
My  fair  Auranthe  !     Yes,  I  will  be  there. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  35 ^ 

Sigifred.  Be  not  so  rash  ;  wait  till  his  wrath  shall  pass, 
Until  his  royal  spirit  softly  ebbs 
Self-influenced;  then,  in  his  morning  dreams 
He  will  forgive  thee,  and  awake  in  grief 
To  have  not  thy  good-morrow. 

Liidolph.  Yes,  to-day 

I  must  be  there,  while  her  young  pulses  beat 
Among  the  new-plum.ed  minions  of  the  war. 
Have  you  seen  her  of  late  ?     No  ?     Auranthe, 
Franconia's  fair  sister,  'tis  I  mean. 
She  should  be  paler  for  my  troublous  days — 
And  there  it  is — my  father's  iron  lips 
Have  sworn  divorcement  'twixt  me  and  my  right. 

Sigifred  (aside).  Auranthe  !    I  had  hoped  this  whim 
had  pass'd. 

L'udolph.  And,  Sigifred,  with  all  his  love  of  justice, 
When  will  he  take  that  grandchild  in  his  arms, 
That,  by  my  love  I  swear,  shall  soon  be  his  t 
This  reconcilement  is  impossible, 
For  see — but  who  are  these } 

Sigifred.  They  are  messengers 

From  our  great  emperor ;  to  you  I  doubt  not, 
For  couriers  are  abroad  to  seek  you  out. 

Enter  Theodore  and  Gonfred. 

Theodore.  Seeing  so  many  vigilant  eyes  explore 
The  province  to  invite  your  highness  back 
To  your  high  dignities,  we  are  too  happy. 

Gonfred.  We  have  no  eloquence  to  color  justly 
The  emperor's  anxious  wishes. 

Ludolph.  Go.     I  follow  you, 

\Exeuiit  Theodore  and  Gonfred. 


352  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

I  play  the  prude  :  it  is  but  venturing — 

Why  s-hould  he  be  so  earnest  ?     Come,  my  friend, 

Let  us  to  Friedburg  castle. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — An  ajtte-chainher  in  the  Castle, 

Enter  Ludolph  and  Sigifred. 

Ltidolph.  No  more  advices,  no  more  cautioning ; 
I  leave  it  all  to  fate — to  anything! 
I  cannot  square  my  conduct  to  time,  place, 
Or  circumstance  ;  to  me  'tis  all  a  mist ! 

Sigifred.  I  say  no  more. 

Ludolph.  It  seems  I  am  to  wait, 

Here  in  the  ante-room  ; — that  may  be  a  trifle. 
You  see  now  how  I  dance  attendance  here. 
Without  that  tyrant  temper,  you  so  blame. 
Snapping  the  rein.     You  have  meSicin'd  me 
With  good  advices  ;  and  I  here  remain, 
In  this  most  honorable  ante-room. 
Your  patient  scholar. 

Sigifred.  Do  not  wrong  me,  Prince. 

By  Heavens,  I'd  rather  kiss  Duke  Conrad's  slipper 
When  in  the  morning  he  doth  yawn  with  pride, 
Than  see  you  humbled  but  a  half-degree  ! 
Truth  is,  the  Emperor  would  fain  dismiss 
The  Nobles  ere  he  sees  you. 

Enter  Goi^FKED  from  the  Cormcil-room. 

Ludolph.  Well,  sir !  what ! 

Gonfred.  Great  honor  to  the  prince  !  The  Emperor 


OTFW  THE  GREAT.  353 

Hearing  that  his  brave  son  had  re-appeared, 
Instant  dismiss'd  the  Council  from  his  sight, 
As  Jove  fans  off  the  clouds.     Even  now  they  pass. 

\Exit, 

[Enter  the   Nobles  from  the  Council-room.     They  cross  the  Stage,  bowing 
with  respect  to  LuDOLPH,  he  frowning  on  thejn.  CONRAD  follows 
Exeitnt  Nobles. 

Ljidolph.  Not  the  discolored  poisons  of  a  fen, 
Which  he,  who  breathes,  feels  warning  of  his  death. 
Could  taste  so  nauseous  to  the  bodily  sense, 
As  these  prodigious  sycophants  disgust 
The  soul's  fine  palate 

Conrad.  Princely  Lndolph,  hail ! 

Welcome,  thou  younger  sceptre  to  the  realm! 
Strength  lo  thy  virgin  crownet's  golden  buds, 
That  they,  against  the  winter  of  thy  sire. 
May  burst,  and  swell,  and  flourish  round  thy  brows, 
Maturing  to  a  weighty  diadem  ! 
Yet  be  that  hour  far  off  :  and  may  he  live. 
Who  waits  for  thee,  as  the  chapp'd  earth  for  rain. 
Set  my  life's  star !     I  have  lived  long  enough, 
Since  under  my  glad  roof,  propitiously, 
Father  and  son  each  other  re-possess. 

Ltidolph.  Fine  wording,  Duke  !    but   words  could 
never  yet 
Forestall  the  fates  ;  have  you  not  learnt  that  yet? 
Let  me  look  well  :  your  features  are  the  same  ; 
Vour  gait  the  same  ;  your  hair  of  the  same  shade; 
As  one  I  knew  some  passed  weeks  ago. 
Who  sung  far  different  notes  into  mine  ears. 
I  have  mine  own  particular  comments  on't ; 
Vou  have  your  own  perhaps. 


354  OTIIO  THE  GREAT. 


Cojtrad.  My  gracious  Prince, 

All  men  may  err.     In  truth  I  was  deceived 
In  your  great  father's  nature,  as  you  were. 
Had  I  known  that  of  him  I  have  since  known, 
And  what  you  soon  will  learn,  I  would  have  turn'd 
My  sword  to  my  own  throat,  rather  than  held 
Its  threatening  edge  against  a  good  King's  quiet : 
Or  with  one  word  fever'd  you,  gentle  Prince, 
Who  seem'd  to  me,  as  rugged  times  then  went. 
Indeed  too  much  oppress'd.     May  I  be  bold 
To  tell  the  Emperor  you  will  haste  to  him  ? 

LiuiolpJi.  Your   Dukedom's  privilege  will  grant  so 
much.  \Exit  Conrad. 

He's  very  close  to  Otho,  a  tight  leech  ! 
Your  hand — I  go  !     Ha !  here  the  thunder  comes 
Sullen  against  the  wind  !     If  in  two  angry  brows 
My  safety  lies,  then,  Sigifred,  I'm  safe. 

Enter  Otho  ajid  Coxrad. 

Otho.  Will  you  make  Titan  play  the  lackey-page 
Tc  chattering  pigmies  t     I  would  have  you  know 
That  such  neglect  of  our  high  Majesty 
Annuls  all  feel  of  kindred.     What  is  son, — 
Or  friend,- -or  brother, — or  all  ties  of  blood 
When  the  whole  kingdom,  centred  i"h  ourself, 
Is  rudely  slighted  1     Who  am  I  to  wait } 
By  Peter's  chair  !  I  have  upon  my  tongue 
A  word  to  fright  the  proudest  spirit  here ! — 
Death  ! — and  slow  tortures  to  the  hardy  fool, 
Who  dares  take  such  large  charter  from  our  smiles 
Conrad,  we  would  be  private  !     Sigifred  ! 
Off  i    And  none  pass  this  way  on  pain  of  death ! 

\Exetmt  Conrad  and  Sigifred. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  355 


Ltidolph.  This  was  but  half  expected,  my  good  sire. 
Yet  I  am  grieved  at  it,  to  the  full  height, 
As  though  my  hopes  of  favor  had  been  whole. 

Otho.  How  you  indulge  yourself !    What  can  you 
hope  for  ? 

Lndolph.  Nothing,   my  liege,   I  have  to  hope  for 
nothing. 
I  come  to  greet  you  as  a  loving  son, 
And  then  depart,  if  I  may  be  so  free, 
Seeinsi  that  blood  of  yours  in  my  warm  veins 
Has  not  yet  mitigated  into  milk. 

Otho.  What  would  you,  sir  ? 

Lndolph.  A  leftient  banishment  \ 

So  please  you  let  me  unmolested  pass 
This  Conrad's  gates,  to  the  wide  air  again. 
T  want  no  more.     A  rebel  wants  no  more. 

Otho.  And  shall  I  let  a  rebel  loose  again 
To  muster  kites  and  eagles  'gainst  my  head  ? 
No,  obstinate  boy,  you  shall  be  kept  caged  up, 
Served  with  harsh  food,  with  scum  for  Sunday-drink, 

LitdolpJi.  Indeed  ! 

Otho.  And  chains  too  heavy  for  your  life  : 

I'll  choose  a  jailor,  whose  swart  monstrous  face 
Shall  be  a  hell  to  look  upon,  and  she — 

Lndolph.   Ha  ! 

Otho.  Shall  be  your  fair  Auranthe. 

Ltidolph.  Amaze!  Amaze.' 

Otho.  To-day  you  marry  her. 

Ltidolph.  This  is  a  sharp  jest ! 

Otlio.  No.     None  at  all.     When  have  I  said  a  lie  } 

Liidolpli.   If  I  sleep  not,  I  am  a  waking  wretch. 

Otho.  Not  a  word  more.  Let  me  embrace  my  child 


35^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Ludolph.  I  dare  not.    'T would  pollute  so  good  a 
father ! 
O  heavy  crime  !  that  your  son's  blinded  eyes 
Could  not  see  all  his  parent's  love  aright, 
As  now  I  see  it.     Be  not  kind  to  me — 
Punish  me  not  with  favor. 

Otho.  Are  you  sure, 

Ludolph,  you  have  no  saving  plea  in  store? 

Ludolph.  My  father,  none  ! 

Otho.  Then  you  astonish  ma 

Ludolph.  No,  I  have  no  plea.     Disobedience, 
Rebellion,  obstinacy,  blasphemy, 
Are  all  my  counsellors.     If  they  can  make 
My  crooked  deeds  show  good  and  plausible, 
Then  grant  me  loving  pardon,  but  not  else, 
Good  Gods  !  not  else,  in  any  way,  my  liege  ! 

OtJio.  You  are  a  most  perplexing,  noble  boy. 

Ludolph.  You  not  less  a  perplexing  noble  father. 

Otho.  Well,  you  shall  have  free  passport  through 
the  gates. 
Farewell ! 

Ludolph.         Farewell !  and  by  these  tears  believe 
And  still  remember  I  repent  in  pain 
All  ray  misdeeds  ! 

Otho.  Ludolph,  I  will !  I  will  \ 

But,  Ludolph,  ere  you  go,  I  would  inquire 
If  you,  in  all  your  wandering,  ever  met 
A  certain  Arab  haunting  in  these  parts. 

Ludolph.  No,  my  good  lord,  I  cannot  say  I  did. 

Otho.  Make  not  your  father  blind  before  his  time; 
Nor  let  these  arms  paternal  hunger  more 
For  an  embrace,  to  dull  the  appetite 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  357 

Of  my  great  love  for  thee,  my  supreme  child  ! 
Come  close,  and  let  me  breathe  into  thine  ear. 
I  knew  you  through  disguise.     You  are  the  Arab 
You  can't  deny  it.  {Embracing  him, 

Liidolph.  Happiest  of  days  ! 

Otho.  We'll  make  it  so 

Ludolph.  'Stead  of  one  fatted  calf 

Ten  hecatombs  shall  bellow  out  their  last, 
Smote  'twixt  the  horns  by  the  death-stunning  mace 
Of  Mars,  and  all  the  soldiery  shall  feast 
Nobly  as  Nimrod's  masons,  when  the  towers 
Of  Nineveh  new  kiss'd  the  parted  clouds  ! 

Otho.  Large  as  a  God  speak  out,  where  all  is  thine. 

Ludolph.  Ay,  father,  but  the  fire  in  my  sad  breast 
Is  quench'd  with  inward  tears  !     I  must  rejoice 
For  you,  whose  wings  so  shadow  over  me 
In  tender  victory,  but  for  myself 
I  still  must  mourn.     The  fair  Auranthe  mine ! 
Too  great  a  boon  !     I  pr'ythee  let  me  ask 
What  more  than  I  know  of  could  so  have  changed 
Your  purpose  touching  her. 

Otho.  At  a  word,  this : 

In  no  deed  did  you  give  me  more  offence 
Than  your  rejection  of  Erminia. 
To  my  appalling,  I  saw  too  good  proof 
Of  your  keen-eyed  suspicion,  she  is  naught! 

Lzidolph.  You  are  convinc'd  .^ 

Otho.  Ay,  spite  of  her  sweet  looksw 

O,  that  my  brother's  daughter  should  so  fall ! 
Her  fame  has  pass'd  in  to  the  grosser  lips 
Of  soldiers  in  their  cups. 

Ludolph.  'Tis  very  sad. 


35^  OTHO  THE  GREAT, 


Otho.  No  more  of  her.  Auranthe^ — Ludolph,  come  ! 
This  marriage  be  the  bond  of  endless  peace  . 

[  Exeunt. 

Scene  II. —  The  entrmice  ^Gersa's  Tent  in  the 

Hiuigarian  Camp. 

Enter  Erminia. 

Erminia.  Where !  where  !  where  shall  I  find  a  mes- 
senger ? 
A  trusty  soul  ?    A  good  man  in  the  camp  ? 
Shall  I  go  myself  ?     Monstrous  wickedness  ! 
O  curse  Conrad  !  devilish  Auranthe  ! 
Here  is  proof  palpable  as  the  bright  sun ! 
O  for  a  voice  to  reach  the  emperor's  ears  ! 

[Shouts  in  the  camp. 

Enter  an  Hungarian  Captain. 

Captain.    Fair    prisoner,  you    hear    these  joyous 
shouts  .'* 
The  king — aye,  now  our  king, — but  still  your  slave. 
Young  Gersa,  from  a  short  captivity 
Has  just  return'd.     He  bids  me  say,  bright  dame, 
That  even  the  homage  of  his  ranged  chiefs 
Cures  not  his  keen  impatience  to  behold 
Such  beauty  once  again      What  ails  you,  lady.^ 

Ermi7iia.  Say,   is    not    that   a   German,   yonder  ? 
There  ! 

Captain.  Methinks  by  his  stout  bearing  he  should 
be- 
Yes — it  is  Albert  ;  a  brave  German  knight. 
And  much  in  the  emperor's  favor. 

Erminia.  I  would  fain 

Inquire  of  friends  and  kinsfolk ;  how  they  fared 


OTIIO  THE  GREAT.  359 

In  these  rough  times.     Brave  soldier  as  you  pass 

To  royal  Gersa  with  my  humble  thanks, 

Will  you  send  yonder  knight  to  me  ? 

Captain.  I  will.     yExiL 

Erjninia.  Yes,  he  was  ever  known  to  be  a  man 

Frank,  open,  generous  ;  Albert  I  may  trust. 

0  proof !  proof !  proof  !     Albert's  an  honest  man  ; 
Not  Ethelbert  the  monk,  if  he  were  here. 
Would  I  hold  more  trustworthy.     Now  ! 

Enter    ALBERT. 

Albert.  Good  Gods! 

Lady  Erminia  !  are  you  prisoner 
In  this  beleaguer'd  camp  }     Or  are  you  here 
Of  your  own  will }     You  pleased  to  send  for  me. 
By  Venus,  'tis  a  pity  I  knew  not 
Your  plight  before,  and,  by  her  Son,  I  swear 
To  do  you  every  service  you  can  ask. 
What  would  the  fairest —  } 

Erminia.  Albert,  will  you  swear  ? 

Albert.    I  have.     Well ! 

Ermiftia.  Albert,  you  have  fame  to  lose 

If  men,  in  court  and  camp,  lie  not  outright, 
You  should  be,  from  a  thousand,  chosen  forth 
To  do  an  honest  deed.     Shall  confide —  .^ 

Albert.    Aye,  anything  to  me,  fair  creature.     Do, 
Dictate  my  task.     Sweet  woman, — 

Ermiftia.  Truce  with  that. 

You  understand  me  not ;  and,  in  your  speech, 

1  see  how  far  the  slander  is  abroad. 
Without  proof  could  you  think  me  innocent  ? 

Albert.  Lady,  I  should  rejoice  to  know  you  so. 


3^0  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Er^ninia.  If  you  have  any  pity  for  a  maid, 
Suffering  a  daily  death  from  evil  tongues ; 
Any  compassion  for  that  Emperor's  niece, 
Who,  for  your  bright  sword  and  clear  honesty. 
Lifted  you  from  the  crowd  of  common  men 
Into  the  lap  of  honor  ; — save  me,  knight  ! 

Albert.    How?     Make  it  clear;  if  it  be  possible, 
I  by  the  banner  of  Saint  Maurice  swear 
To  right  you, 

Ermifiia.  Possible  ! — Easy.     O  my  heart ! 
This  letter's  not  so  soil'd  but  you  may  read  it  ;- 
Possible !     There — that  letter '     Read — read  it. 

\_Gives  him  a  letter, 

Albert  [Reading). 

"  To  the  Duke  Conrad.  —  Forget  the  threat  you 
made  at  parting,  and  I  will  forget  to  send  the  Em- 
peror letters  and  papers  of  yours  I  have  become  pos- 
sessed of.  His  life  is  no  trifle  to  me  ;  his  death  you 
shall  find  none  to  yourself."  (Speaks  to  himself^  'Tis 
me — my  life  that's  pleaded  for !  (Reads)  "  He,  for 
his  own  sake,  will  be  dumb  as  the  grave.  Erminia 
has  my  shame  fix'd  upon  her,  sure  as  a  wen.     We  are 

safe.  AURANTHE.'* 

A  she-devil !     A  dra<^on  !     I  her  imp  ! 

Fire  of  Hell !     Auranthe — lewd  demon  ! 

Where  got  you  this  }     Where  }     When  \ 

'    Ermtma.   I  found  it  in  the  tent,  among  some  spoils 

Which,  being  noble,  fell  to  Gersa's  lot. 

Come  in,  and  see. 

[They  go  iii  and  return* 
Albert,  Villany!    Villany ! 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  36X 

Conrad's  sword,  his  corslet,  and  his  h^lm, 
And  his  letter.     Caitiff,  he  shall  feel — 

Ermiiiia,     I   see  you  arc   thunderstruck.      Haste, 
haste  away ! 

Albert.    O  I  am  tortured  by  this  villany. 

Erminia.    You  needs  must  be.     Carry  it  swift  to 
Otho  ; 
Tell  him,  moreover,  I  am  prisoner 
Here  in  this  camp,  where  all  the  sisterhood, 
Forced  from  their  quiet  cells,  are  parcell'd  out 
For  slaves  among  these  Huns.     Away  !     Away  ! 

Albert.  I  am  gone. 

Erminia.    Swift  be  your  steed  !     Within  this  hour 
The  Emperor  will  sea  it. 

Albert.  Ere  I  sleep  : 

That  I  can  swear.  \Htirries  out. 

Gersa  {without).     Brave  captains  !  thanks.    Enough 
Of  loyal  homage  now  ! 

Enter   Gersa. 

Ermijiia.  Hail,  royal  Hun  \ 

Gersa.  What  means  this,  fair  one  t  Why  in   such 
alarm  } 

Who  was  it  hurried  by  me  so  distract  } 

It  seem'd  you  were  in  deep  discourse  together  ; 

Your  doctrine  has  not  been  so  harsh  to  him 

As  tc  my  poor  deserts.     Come,  come,  be  plain. 

I  am  no  jealous  fool  to  kill  you  both,  . 

Or,  for  such  trifles,  rob  th'  adorned  world 

Of  such  a  beauteous  vestal. 

Erminia.  I  grieve,  my  Lord, 

To  hear  you  condescend  to  ribald-phrase. 


362  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Gersa.  This  is  too  much  !     Hearken,  my  lady  pure  ! 

Erminia.  Silence  !  and  hear  the  magic  of  a  name — 
Erminia!     I  am  she, — the  Emperor's  niece! 
Praised  be  the  Heavens,  I  now  dare  own  myself ! 

Gersa.    Erminia  !     Indeed  !    I've  heard  of  her. 
Pr'ythee,  fair  lady,  what  chance  brought  you  here  ? 

Emiinia.  Ask  your  own  soldiers. 

Gersa.  And  you  dare  own  your  name. 

For  loveliness  you  may — and  for  the  rest 
My  vein  is  not  censorious. 

Ermhiia.  Alas !  poor  me  ! 

'Tis  false  indeed. 

Gersa.  Indeed  you  are  too  fair : 

The  swan,  soft  leaning  on  her  fledgy  breast, 
When  to  the  stream  she  launches,  looks  not  back 
With  such  a  tender  grace ;  nor  are  her  wings 
So  white  as  your  soul  is,  if  that  but  be 
Twin  picture  to  your  face.     Erminia  ! 
To-day,  for  the  first  day,  I  am  a  king, 
Yet  would  I  give  my  unworn  crown  away 
To  know  vou  spotless. 

Ermiiiia,  Trust  me  one  day  more, 

Generously,  without  more  certain  guarantee, 
Than  this  poor  face  you  deign  to  praise  so  much  ; 
After  that,  say  and  do  whate'er  you  please. 
If  I  have  any  knowledge  of  you,  sir, 
I  think,  nay  I  am  sure  you  will  grieve  much 
To  hear  my  story.     O  be  gentle  to  me. 
For  I  am  sick  and  faint  with  many  wrongs, 
Tired  out,  and  weary-worn  with  contumelies. 

Gersa.  Poor  lady ! 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  3^3 

Enter  Ethelbert. 

Erminia,  Gentle  Prince,  'tis  false  indeed. 

Good  morrow,  holy  father !     I  have  had 
Your  prayers,  though  I  look'd  for  you  in  \^ain. 

Ethelbert.  Blessings  upon  you,  daughter  !  Sure  you 
look 
Too  cheerful  for  these  foul  pernicious  days. 
Young  man,  you  heard  this  virgin  say  'twas  false, 
'Tis  false  I  say.     What !  can  you  not  employ 
Your  temper  elsewhere,  'mong  these  burly  tents, 
But  you  must  taunt  this  dove,  for  she  hath  lost 
The  Eagle  Otho  to  beat  off  assault. 
Fie  !  Fie  !     But  I  will  be  her  guard  myself  ; 
I'  the  Emperor's  name.     I  here  demand 
Herself,  and  all  her  sisterhood.     She  false 

Gersa.  Peace  !    peace,   old  man  !      I  c?nnot  think 

she  is. 
Ethelbert.     Whom   I    have  known   from  her   first 
infancy. 
Baptized  her  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church, 
Watch'd  her,  as  anxious  husbandmen  the  grain, 
From  the  first  shoot  till  the  unripe  mid-May, 
Then  to  the  tender  ear  of  her  June  days, 
Which,  lifting  sweet  abroad  its  timid  green. 
Is  blighted  by  the  touch  of  calumny ; 
You  cannot  credit  such  a  monstrous  tale. 

Gersa.  I  cannot.     Take  her.     Fair  Erminia, 
I  follow  you  to  Friedburg, — is't  not  so  i* 
Erminia.  Ay,  so  we  purpose. 

Ethelbert.  Daughter,  do  you  so? 

How's  this  }     I  marvel !     Yet  you  look  not  mad. 
Erminia.  I  have  good  news  to  tell  you,  Ethelbert 


3^4  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Gersa.  Ho  !  ho,  there  !    Guards  ! 
Your  blessing,  father  !     Sweet  Erminia, 
Beheve  me,  I  am  wellnigh  sure — 

Erminia.  Farewell ! 

Short  time  will  show.  {Enter  Chiefs^ 

Yes,  father  Ethelbert, 
I  have  news  precious  as  we  pass  along. 

Ethelbert.  Dear  daughter,  you  shall  guide  me. 

Erminia.  To  no  ill. 

Gersa.  Command  an  escort  to  the  Friedburg  lines. 

\Exennt  Chiefs, 
Pray  let  me  lead.     Fair  lady,  forget  not 
Gersa,  how  he  believed  you  innocent. 
I  follow  you  to  Friedburg  with  all  speed. 

\Exeunt 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — The  Country. 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert.  O  that  the  earth  were  empty,  as  when  Cain 
Had  no  perplexity  to  hide  his  head ! 
Or  that  the  sword  of  some  brave  enemy 
Had  put  a  sudden  stop  to  my  hot  breath. 
And  hurl'd  me  down  the  illimitable  gulph 
Of  times  past,  unremember'd  !     Better  so 
Than  thus  fast-limed  in  a  cursed  snare. 
The  white  limbs  of  a  wanton.     This  the  end 
Of  an  aspiring  life  !     My  boyhood  past 
In  feud  with  wolves  and  bears,  when  no  eye  saw 


OTHO  THE  GkEAT.  065 

The  solitary  warfare,  fought  for  love 

Of  honor  'mid  the  growling  wilderness. 

My  sturdier  youth,  maturing  to  the  sword, 

Won  by  the  syren-trumpets,  and  the  ring 

Of  shields  upon  the  pavement,  when  bright  mail'd 

Henry  the  Fowler  pass'd  the  streets  of  Prague. 

Was't  to  this  end  I  louted  and  became 

The  menial  of  Mars,  and  held  a  spear 

Sway'd  by  command,  as  corn  is  by  the  wind  ? 

Is  it  for  this,  I  now  am  lifted  up 

By  Europe's  throned  Emperor,  to  see 

My  honor  be  my  executioner, — 

My  love  of  fame,  my  prided  honesty 

Put  to  the  torture  for  confessional  ! 

Then  the  danm'd  crime  of  blurting  to  the  world 

A  woman's  secret ! — Though  a  fiend  she  be, 

Too  tender  of  my  ignominious  life  ; 

But  then  to  wrong  the  generous  Emperor 

In  such  a  searching  point,  were  to  give  up 

My  soul  for  foot-ball  at  Hell'd  holiday  ! 

I  must  confess, — and  cut  my  throat, — to-day  ? 

To-morrow  ?     Ho  !  some  wine ! 

Enter  SiGlFRED. 

Sigifred.  A  fine  humor — • 

Albert.  Who  goes  there  r  Count  Sigifred  ?  Ha  i  ha  \ 
Sigifred.  What,  man,  do  you  mistake  the  hollow  sky 
For  a  thronged  tavern, — and  these  stubbed  trees 
For  old  serge  hangings, — me,  your  humble  friend, 
For  a  poor  waiter  ?     Why,  man,  how  you  stare  ! 
What  gypsies  have  you  been  carousing  with  ? 
No,  no  more  v/ine  ;  methinks  you've  had  enough. 


3^6  OTHO  THE  CREAT. 


Albert.  You  well   may  laugh  and  banter.     What  a 
fool 
An  injury  may  make  of  a  staid  man  ! 
You  shall  know  all  anon. 

Sigifred.  Some  tavern  brawl  •' 

Albert.    'Twas  with  some   people  out  of  common 
reach ; 
Revenge  is  difficult. 

Sigifred,  I  am  your  friend ; 

We  meet  again  to-day,  and  can  confer 
Upon  it.     For  the  present  I'm  in  haste. 

Albe7t.  Whither.? 

Sigifred,  To  fetch  King  Gersa  to  the  feast. 

The  Emperor  on  this  marriage  is  so  hot, 
Pray  Heaven  it  end  not  in  apoplexy  ! 
The  very  porters,  as  I  pass'd  the  doors, 
Heard  his  loud  laugh,  and  answer'd  in  full  choin 
I  marvel,  Albert,  you  delay  so  long 
From  these  bright  revelries ;  go,  show  yourself, 
You  may  be  made  a  duke. 

Albert,  Ay,  very  like : 

Pray,  what  day  has  his  Highness  lix'd  upon  } 

Sigifred,  For  what  1 

Albert.  The  marriage.     What  else  cani  mean ? 

Sigifred.  To-day.     O,  I  forgot,  you  could  not  know  ; 
The  news  is  scarce  a  minute  old  with  me, 

Albert.  Married  to-day  !    To-day  !    You  did  not  say 
so } 

Sigifred.  Now,  while  I  speak  to  you,  their  comely 
heads 
Are  bowed  before  the  mitre. 

Albert,  O  !  monstrous  I 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  367 

Sigifred.  What  is  this  ? 

Albert.  Nothing,  Sigifred.     Farewell ! 

We'll  meet  upon  our  subject.     Farewell,  count .' 

\Exit, 
Sigifred.  To  this  clear-headed  Albert }     He  brain- 
turn'd  ! 
*Tis  as  portentous  as  a  meteor. 

\Exit, 

Scene  II. — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

\Enter  as  from  the  Marriage,  Otho,  Ludolph,  Auranthe,  Conrad 
Nobles,  Knights,  Ladies,  ^c,   <S^c.,  &*€.      Music 

Gtho.    Now  Ludolph  !    Now.  Auranthe!    Daughter 
fair! 
What  can  I  find  to  grace  your  nuptial  day- 
More  than  my  love,  and  these  wide  realms  in  fee  1 

Ljidolph.  I  have  too  much. 

Auranthe.  And  I,  my  liege,  by  far. 

Ludolph.  Auranthe  !  I  have  !  O,  my  bride,  my  love  I 
Not  all  the  gaze  upon  us  can  restrain 
My  eyes,  too  long  poor  exiles  from  thy  face, 
From  adoration,  and  my  foolish  tongue 
From  uttering  soft  responses  to  the  love 
I  see  in  thy  mute  beauty  beaming  forth ! 
Fair  creature,  bless  me  with  a  single  word! 
All  mine ! 

Auranthe.    Spare,   spare  me,  my   Lord;    I  swoon 
else. 

Ludolph.  Soft  beauty  !    by  to-morrow  I  should  die, 
Wert  thou  not  mine.  YThey  talk  apart. 

1st  Lady.  How  deep  she  has  bewitch'd  him  \ 


3^8  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

1st  Knight.  Ask  you  for  her  recipe  for  love  philtres. 

2d  Lady.  They  hold  the  Emperor  in  admiration. 

OtJio.  If  ever  king  was  happy,  that  am  I ! 
What  are  the  cities  'yond  the  Alps  to  me. 
The  provinces  about  the  Danube's  mouth. 
The  promise  of  fair  sail  beyond  the  Rhone  ; 
Or  routing  out  of  Hyperborean  hordes, 
To  these  fair  children,  stars  of  a  new  age  ? 
Unless  perchance  I  might  rejoice  to  win 
This  little  ball  of  earth,  and  chuck  it  them 
To  play  with  ! 

Auranthe.  Nay,  my  Lord,  I  do  not  know. 

LtidolpJi.  Let  me  not  famish. 

Otho  {to  Conrad).  Good  Franconia, 

You  heard  what  oath  I  sware,  as  the  sun  rose, 
That  unless  Heaven  would  send  me  back  my  son. 
My  Arab, — no  soft  music  should  enrich 
The  cool  wine,  kiss'd  off  with  a  soldier's  smack  ; 
Now  all  my  empire,  barter'd  for  one  feast. 
Seems  poverty. 

Conrad.  Upon  the  neighbor-plain 

The  heralds  have  prepared  a  royal  lists ; 
Your  knights,  found  war-proof  in  the  bloody  field, 
Speed  to  the  game. 

Otho.  Well,  Ludolph,  what  say  you  } 

Liidolph.  My  lord ! 

Otho.  A  tourney } 

Conrad.  Or,  if  t  please  you  best — 

Ludolph.  I  want  no  more  ! 

\st  Lady.  He  soars  ! 

2d  Lady.  Past  all  reason. 

Ltidolph.  Though  heaven's  choir 


OTIIO  THE  GREAT.  569 


Should  in  a  vast  circumference  descend, 
And  sing  for  my  delight,  I'd  stop  my  ears  ! 
Though  bright  Apollo's  car  stood  burning  here, 
And  he  put  out  an  arm  to  bid  me  mount, 
His  touch  an  immortality,  not  I ! 
This  earth,  this  palace,  this  room,  Auranthe  \ 

OtJio.  This  is  a  little  painful  ;  just  too  much. 
Conrad,  if  he  flames  longer  in  this  wise, 
I  shall  believe  in  wizard-woven  loves 
And  old  romances  ;   but  I'll  break  the  spell. 
Ludolph  ! 

Conrad.    He'll  be  calm,  anon. 

Ludolph,  You  calFd  \ 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  offend.     You  must  forgive  me ; 
Not  being  quite  recover'd  from  the  stun 
Of  your  large  bounties.     A  tourney,  is  it  not  ? 

\^A  senet  heard fai?itfy. 

Conrad.  The  trumpets  reach  us. 

Ethelbcrt  {without).  On  your  peril,  sirs, 

Detain  us  ! 

\st  voice  {without) .  Let  not  the  abbot  pass. 

2d  voice  {without).  No, 

On  your  lives  ! 

1st  voice  {without).  Holy  father,  you  must  not. 

Ethelbcrt  {without).  Otho  ! 

Otho.  Who  calls  on  Otho  > 

Ethelbcrt  {without).  Ethelbcrt ! 

Otho.  Let  him  come  in. 

\_Enter  Ethelbert  leading  in  Erminia. 
Thou  cursed  abbot,  why 
Hast  brought  pollution  to  our  holy  rites  } 
Hast  thou  no  fear  of  hangman  or  the  faggot .? 


370  OTIIO  THE  GREAT. 

Ludolph.     What  portent — what  strange  prodigy  is 
this  ? 

Conrad.  Away  1 

Ethclbcrt.  You,  Duke  ? 

Erminia.  Albert  has  surely  fail'd  me  I 

Look  at  the  Emperor's  brow  upon  me  bent ! 

Ethelbert.    A  sad  delay  ! 

Conrad.  Away,  thou  guilty  thing  ! 

EtJielbcrt.  You  again,  Duke  ?     Justice,  most  noble 
Otho! 
You — go  to  your  sister  there  and  plot  again. 
A  quick  plot,  swift  as  thought  to  save  your  heads ; 
For  lo  !  the  toils  are  spread  around  your  den, 
The  world  is  all  agape  to  see  dragg'd  forth 
Two  ugly  monsters. 

Ludolph.  What  means  he,  my  lord } 

Conrad.  I  cannot  guess. 

Ethelbert.  Best  ask  you  lady  sister. 

Whether  the  riddle  puzzles  her  beyond 
The  power  of  utterance. 

Conrad.  Foul  barbarian,  cease  ; 

The  Princess  faints  ! 

LiLdolph.  Stab  him  !     O,  sweetest  wife  ! 

^Attendants  bear  off  Aurx^tke. 

Erminia.  Alas  ! 

Ethelbert.  Your  wife ! 

Lndolph.  Ay,  Satan  !  does  that  yerk  ye  ? 

Ethelbert.  Wife  !  so  soon  ! 

Ludolph.  Ay,  wife  !  Oh,  impudence! 

Thou  bitter  mischief  !    Venomous  bad  priest ! 
How  dar'st  thou  lift  those  beetle  brows  at  me  ? 
Me — the  prince  Ludolph,  in  this  presence  here, 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  371 

Upon  my  marriage-day,  and  scandalize 

My  joys  with  such  opprobrious  surprise  ? 

Wife  !  Why  dost  Hnger  on  that  syllable. 

As  if  it  were  some  demon's  name  pronounced 

To  summon  harmful  lightning,  and  make  yawn 

The  sleepy  thunder  ?     Hast  no  sense  of  fear  ? 

No  ounce  of  man  in  thy  mortaUty  ? 

Tremble  !  for,  at  my  nod,  the  sharpen'd  axe 

Will  make  thy  bold  tongue  quiver  to  the  roots, 

Those  gray  lids  wink,  and  thou  not  know  it,  monk ! 

Ethelbert.  O,  poor  deceived  Prmce  !  I  pity  thee  ! 
Great  Otho  !  I  claim  justice — 

Ludolph.  Thou  shalt  have't! 

Thine  arms  from  forth  a  pulpit  of  hot  fire 
Shall  sprawl  distracted  !     O  that  that  dull  cowl 
Were  some  most  sensitive  portion  of  thy  life, 
That  I  might  give  it  to  my  hounds  to  tear  ! 
Thy  girdle  some  fine  zealous-pained  nerve 
To  girth  my  saddle!     And  those  devil's  beads 
Each  one  a  life,  that  I  might,  every  day, 
Crush  one  with  Vulcan's  hammer  ! 

Otho.  Peace,  my  son  ; 

You  far  outstrip  my  spleen  in  this  affair. 
Let  us  be  calm,  and  hear  the  abbot's  plea 
For  this  intrusion. 

Lndolph.  I  am  silent,  sire. 

Otho.  Conrad,  see  all  depart  not  wanted  here. 

\_Exciint  Knights,  Ladies^  &rc, 
Ludolph  be  calm.     Ethelbert,  peace  awhile. 
This  mystery  demands  an  audience 
Of  a  just  judge,  and  that  will  Otho  bo. 

Ludolph.  Why  has  he  time  to  breathe  another  word  ? 


372  OTirO  THE  GREAT. 

Otho,  Ludolph,  old  Ethelbert,  be  sure,  comes  not 
To  beard  us  for  no  cause ;  he's  not  the  man 
To  cry  himself  up  an  ambassador 
Without  credentials. 

Ludolph.  I'll  chain  up  myself. 

Otho.  Old  abbot,  stand  here  forth.     Lady  Erminia, 
Sit.     And  now,  abbot !  what  have  you  to  say  t 
Our  ear  is  open.     First  we  here  denounce 
Hard  penalties  against  thee,  if  t  be  found 
The  cause  for  which  you  have  disturb'd  us  here, 
Making  our  bright  hours  muddy,  be  a  thing 
Of  little  moment. 

Ethelbert.  See  this  innocent ! 

Otho  !  thou  father  of  the  people  call'd, 
Is  her  life  nothing  ?     Her  fair  honor  nothing  ? 
Her  tears  from  matins  until  even-song 
Nothing  ?    Her  burst  heart  nothing  ?    Emperor ! 
Is  this  your  gentle  niece — the  simplest  flower 
Of  the  world's  herbal — this  fair  lily  blanch'd 
Still  with  the  dews  of  piety,  this  meek  lady 
Here  sitting  like  an  angel  newly-shent. 
Who  veils  its  snowy  wings  and  grows  all  pale, — • 
Is  she  nothing } 

Otho.  What  more  to  the  purpose,  abbot  } 

Ludolph.  Whither  is  he  winding  } 

Conrad.  No  clue  yet ! 

Ethelbert.  You  have  heard,  my  Liege,  and  so,  no 
doubt,  all  here, 
Foul,  poisonous,  malignant  whisperings  ; 
Xay  open  speech,  rude  mockery  grown  common, 
Against  the  spotless  nature  and  clear  fame 
Of  the  princess  Erminia,  your  niece. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  373 

I  have  intruded  here  thus  suddenly, 

Because  I  hold  those  base  weeds,  with  tight  hand, 

Which  now  disfigure  her  fair  growing  stem, 

Waiting  but  for  your  sign  to  pull  them  up 

By  the  dark  roots,  and  leave  her  palpable, 

To  all  men's  sight,  a  lady  innocent. 

The  ignominy  of  that  whisper'd  tale 

About  a  midnight  gallant,  seen  to  climb 

A  window  to  her  chamber  neighbored  near, 

I  will  from  her  turn  off,  and  put  the  load 

On  the  right  shoulders;  pn  that  wretch's  head, 

Who,  by  close  stratagems,  did  save  herself, 

Chiefly  by  shifting  to  this  lady's  room 

A  rope-ladder  for  false-witness. 

Ludolph.  Most  atrocious ! 

Otlio.  Ethelbert,  proceed. 

Ethelbert.  With  sad  lips  I  shall : 

For,  in  the  healing  of  one  wound,  I  fear 
To  make  a  greater.     His  young  highness  here 
To-day  was  married. 

Liidolph.  Good. 

Ethelbert.  Would  it  were  good  \ 

Yet  why  do  I  delay  to  spread  abroad 
The  names  of  those  two  vipers,  from  whose  jaw 
A  deadly  breath  went  forth  to  taint  and  blast 
This  guileless  lady.? 

Otho.  Abbot,  speak  their  names. 

Ethelbert.  A  minute  first.     It  cannot  be — but  may 
3  ask,  great  judge,  if  you  to  day  have  put 
A  letter  by  unread  t 

Otho.  Docs't  end  in  this? 

Conrad.  Out  v/ith  their  names  ' 


374  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Ethclbcrt.  Bold  sinner,  say  you  so  ? 

Ludolph.  Out,  hideous  monk  ! 

Otho.  Confess,  or  by  the  wheel — 

Ethclbcrt.  My  evidence  cannot  be  far  away  ; 
And,  though  it  never  come,  be  on  my  head 
The  crime  of  passing  an  attaint  upon 
The  slanderers  of  this  virgin. 

Ludolph.  Speak  aloud! 

EtJiclbcrt.  Auranthe  !  and  her  brother  there. 

Conrad.  Amaze  ! 

Ludolph.  Throw  them  from  the  windows ! 

Otho.  Do  what  you  will ! 

Ludolph.  What  shall  I  do  with  them  ? 

Something  of  quick  dispatch,  for  should  she  hear, 
My  soft  Auranthe,  her  sweet  mercy  would 
Prevail  against  my  fury.     Damned  priest ! 
What  swift  death  wilt  thou  die  ?     As  to  the  lady, 
I  touch  her  not. 

EtJiclbcrt.  Illustrious  Otho,    stay! 

An  ample  store  of  misery  thou  hast. 
Choke  not  the  granary  of  thy  noble  mind 
With  more  bad  bitter  grain,  too  difficult 
A  cud  for  the  repentance  of  a  man 
Gray-growing.     To  thee  only  I  appeal. 
Not  to  thy  noble  son,  whose  yeasting  youth 
Will  clear  itself,  and  crystal  turn  again. 
A  young  man's  heart,  by  Heaven's  blessing,  is 
A  wide  world,  where  a  thousand  new-born  hopes 
Empurple  fresh  the  melancholy  blood  : 
But  an  old  man's  is  narrow,  tenantless 
Of  hopes,  and  stuff'd  with  many  memories, 
Which,  being  pleasant,  ease  the  heavy  pulse — 


OTFIO  THE  GREAT.  375 


Painful,  clog  up  and  stagnate.     Weigh  this  matter 

Even  as  a  miser  balances  his  coin  ; 

And  in  the  name  of  mercy,  give  command 

That  your  knight  Albert  be  brought  here  before  you. 

He  will  expound  this  riddle  ;  he  will  show 

A  noon-day  proof  of  bad  Auranthe's  guilt. 

Otho.  Let  Albert  straight  be  summon'd. 

{Exit  one  of  the  Nobles, 

Liidolph,  Impossible ! 

I  cannot  doubt — I  will  not — no — to  doubt 
Is  to  be  ashes  ! — wither'd  up  to  death  ! 

Otho.  My  gentle  Ludolph,  harbor  not  a  fear; 
You  do  yourself  much  wrong. 

Ludolph.  O,  wretched  dolt ! 

Now,  when  my  foot  is  almost  on  thy  neck, 
Wilt  thou  infuriate  me  }     Proof !     Thou  fool ! 
Why  wilt  thou  tease  impossibility 
With  such  a  thick-skull'd  persevering  suit  ? 
Fanatic  obstinacy  !     Prodigy  ! 
Monster  of  folly  !     Ghost  of  a  turn'd  brain ! 
You  puzzle  me, — you  haunt  me, — when  I  dream 
Of  you  my  brain  will  split !     Bold  sorcerer  ! 
Juggler  !     May  I  come  near  you  }     On  my  soul 
I  knpw  not  whether  to  pity,  curse,  or  laugh. 


Enter  Albert,  and  the  Nobleman. 

Here,  Albert,  this  old  phantom  wants  a  proof! 
Give  him  his  proof!     A  camel's  load  of  proofs! 

Otho.  Albert,  I  speak  to  you  as  to  a  man 
Whose  words  once  utter'd  pass  like  current  gold  ; 
And  therefore  fit  to  calmly  put  a  close 
To  this  brief  tempest.     Do  you  stand  possess'd 


37^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Of  any  proo^  against  the  honorableness 

Of  lady  Auranthe,  our  ncvv-spoused  daughter  ? 

Albert.  You  chill   me  with  astonishment.     How's 
this  ? 
My  Liege,  what  proof  should  I  have  'gainst  a  fame 
Impossible  of  slur  ? 

[Otho  rises, 

Erminia.  O  wickedness  ! 

EtiU'lbert.  Deluded  monarch,  'tis  a  cruel  lie. 

Otho.  Peace,  rebel-priest  1 

Conrad.  Insult  beyond  credence  ! 

Erminia.  Almost  a  dream  ! 

Lndolph.  We  have  awaked  from  ! 

A  foolish  dream  that  from  my  brow  hath  wrung 
A  wrathful  dew.     O  folly !  why  did  I 
So  act  the  lion  with  this  silly  gnat  ? 
Let  them  depart.     Lady  Erminia  ! 
I  ever  grieved  for  you,  as  who  did  not  ? 
But  now  you  have,  with  such  a  brazen  front, 
So  most  maliciously,  so  madly  striven 
To  dazzle  the  soft  moon,  when  tenderest  clouds 
Should  be  unloop'd  around  to  curtain  her ; 
I  leave  you  to  the  desert  of  the  world 
Almost  with  pleasure.     Let  them  be  set  free 
For  me  !     I  take  no  personal  revenge 
More  than  against  a  nightmare,  which  a  man 
Forgets  in  the  new  dawn.  {Exit  Ludolph. 

Otho.  Still  in  extremes  !  No,  they  must  not  be  loose. 

Ethelbert.  Albert,  I  must  suspect  thee  of  a  crime 
So  fiendish — 

Otho.  Fear'st  thou  not  my  fury,  monk  ? 

Conrad,  be  they  in  your  safe  custody 


OTHO  THE  GREAT,  Z17 

Till  we  determine  some  fit  punishment. 

It  "is  so  mad  a  deed,  I  must  reflect 

And  question  them  in  private  ;  for  perhaps 

By  patient  scrutiny,  we  may  discover 

Whether  they  merit  death,  or  should  be  placed, 

In  care  of  the  physicians. 

\Exeiint  Otho  and  Nobles,,  Ki^^yjky  following, 

Conrad.  My  guards,  ho  ! 

Ermijiia.  Albert,  wilt  thou  follow  there  ? 

Wilt  thou  creep  dastardly  behind  his  back, 
And  shrink  away  from  a  weak  woman's  eye  ? 
Turn,  thou  court-Janus !  thou  forget'st  thyself  ; 
Here  is  the  duke,  waiting  with  open  arms, 

\^Enter  Guards, 
To  thank  thee  ;  here  congratulate  each  other  ; 
Wring  hands  ;  embrace ;  and  swear  how  lucky  'twas 
That  I,  by  happy  chance,  hit  the  right  man 
Of  all  the  world  to  trust  in. 

Albert.  Trust !  to  me  ! 

Conrad  {aside).  He  is  the  sole  one  in  this  mystery. 

Enninia.  Well,  I  give  up,  and  save  my  prayers  for 
Heaven  ! 
You,  who  could  do  this  deed,  would  ne'er  relent, 
Though,  at  my  words,  the  hollow  prison-vaults 
Would  groan  for  pity. 

Conrad.  Manacle  them  both  ! 

Ethelbert.  I  know  it — it  must  be — I  see  it  all ! 
Albert,  thou  art  the  minion  ! 

Erminia.  Ah  !  too  plain — 

Conrad.  Silence  !  Gag  up  their  mouths !  I  cannot 
bear 
More  of  Ihis  brawling.     That  the  Emperor 


378  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Had  placed  you  in  some  other  custody ! 
Bring  them  away. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Albert. 
Albert.  Though  my  name  perish  from  the  book  of 
honor, 
Almost  before  the  recent  ink  is  dry, 
And  be  no  more  remember'd  after  death. 
Than  any  drummer's  in  the  muster-roll  ; 
Yet  shall  I  season  high  my  sudden  fall 
With  triumph  o'er  that  evil-witted  duke ! 
He  shall  feel  what  it  is  to  have  the  hand 
Of  a  man  drowning,  on  his  hateful  throat. 

Enter  Gersa  and  Sigifred. 
Cersa.  What  discord  is  at  ferment  in  this  house 
Sigifred.  We  are  without  conjecture  ;  not  a  soul 
We  met  could  answer  any  certainty. 

Ge7'sa.    Young  Ludolph,  like  a  fiery  arrow,  shot 
By  us. 
Sigifred.  The  Emperor,  withcross'd  arms,  in  thought 
Gersa.  In  one  room  music,  in  another  sadness, 
Perplexity  every  where ! 

Albert.  A  trifle  more  ! 

Follow  ;  your  presences  will  much  avail 
To  tune  our  jarred  spirits,     I'll  explair. 

[Exeuni, 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  Z79 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I. — Auranthe's  Apartment 

AuRANTHE  and  Conrad  discovered. 

Conrad.  Well,  well,  I  know  what  ugly  jeopardy 
We  are  caged  in  ;  you  need  not  pester  that 
Into  my  ears.     Pr'ythee,  let  me  be  spared 
A  foolish  tongue,  that  I  may  bethink  me 
Of  remedies  with  some  deliberation. 
You  cannot  doubt  but  'tis  in  Albert's  power 
To  crush  or  save  us  ? 

Aiiranthe.  No,  I  cannot  doubt. 

He  has,  assure  yourself,  by  some  strange  means, 
My  secret ;  which  I  ever  hid  from  him, 
Knowing  his  mawkish  honesty. 

Conrad.  Cursed  slave  ! 

Aiiranthc.    Ay,  I  could  almost  curse  him  now  my- 
self. 
Wretched  impediment !     Evil  genius  ! 
A  glue  upon  my  wings,  that  cannot  spread, 
When  they  should  span  the  provinces  !     A  snake, 
A  scorpion,  sprawling  on  the  first  gold  step, 
Conducting  to  the  throne,  high  canopied. 

Co7irad.    You  would  not  hear  my  counsel,  when  his 
life 
Might  have  been  trodden  out,  all  sure  and  hush'd*. 
Now  the  dull  animal  forsooth  must  be 
Intreated,  managed  !     When  can  you  contrive 
The  interview  he  demands  t 


3^0  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Aiiraiithe.  As  speedily 

It  must  be  done  as  my  bribed  woman  can 
Unseen  conduct  him  to  me  ;  but  I  fear 
'Twill  be  impossible,  while  the  broad  day 
Comes  through  the  panes  with  persecuting  glare-. 
Methinks,  if  t  now  were  night  I  could  intrigue 
With  darkness,  bring  the  stars  to  second  me. 
And  settle  all  this  trouble. 

Co?i7^ad.  Nonsense  !    Child  ! 

See  him  immediately  ;  why  not  now  ? 

Atiraiithe.     Do  you  forget  that  even  the  senseless 
door-posts 
Are  on  the  watch  and  gape  through  all  the  house ; 
How  many  whisperers  there  are  about, 
Hungry  for  evidence  to  ruin  me  : 
Men  I  have  spurn'd,  and  women  I  have  taunted. 
Besides,  the  foolish  prmce  sends,  minute  whiles, 
His  pages — so  they  tell  me — to  inquire 
After  my  health,  entreating,  if  I  please, 
To  see  me. 

Conrad.  Well,  suppose  this  Albert  here  ; 
What  is  your  power  with  him  .? 

Auranthe.  He  should  be 

My  echo,  my  taught  parrot  \  but  I  fear 
He  will  be  cur  enough  to»  bark  at  me  ; 
Have  his  own  say  ;^  read  me»so  me  silly  creed 
'Bout  shame  and  pity. 

Conrad.  What  will  you  do  then  ? 

Anranthe.  What*I  shall  do,  I  know  not ;  what  I  would, 
Cannot  be  done  ;  for  see,  this  chamber-floor 
Will  not  yield  to  the  pick-axe  and  the  spade, — • 
Here  is  no  quiet  depth  of  hollow  ground. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  381 

Conrad.  Sister,  you  have  grown  sensible  and  wise, 
Seconding,  ere  I  speak  it,  what  is  now, 
I  hope,  resolved  between  us. 

Aiiranthe.  Say,  what  is't  ? 

Conrad.     You  need  not  be  his  sexton  too  ;  a  man 
May  carry  that  with  him  shall  make  him  die 
Elsewhere, — give  that  to  him  ;  pretend  the  while 
You  will  to-morrow  succumb  to  his  wishes, 
Be  what  they  may,  and  send  him  from  the  Castle 
On  some  fool's  errand  :  let  his  latest  groan 
Frighten  the  wolves  ! 

Anranthe.  Alas  !  he  must  not  die  ! 

Conrad.  Would  you  were  both  hearsed  up  in  stifling 
lead! 
Detested — 

Auranthe.     Conrad,  hold  !  I  would  not  bear 
The  little  thunder  of  your  fretful  tongue, 
Tho'  I  alone  were  taken  in  these  toils. 
And  you  could  free  me  ;  but  remember,  sir, 
You  live  alone  in  my  security  : 
So  keep  your  wits  at  work,  for  your  own  sake, 
Not  mine,  and  be  more  mannerly. 

Conrad.  Thou  wasp  I 

If  my  domains  were  emptied  of  these  folk, 
And  I  had  thee  to  starve — 

Auranthe.  O,  marvellous 

But  Conrad,  now  be  gone  ;  the  Host  is  look'd  for  ; 
Cringe  to  the  Emperor,  entertain  the  Lords, 
And,  do  ye  mind,  above  all  things,  proclaim 
My  sickness,  with  a  brother's  sadden'd  eye, 
Condoling  with  Prince  Ludolph.     In  fit  time 
Return  to  me. 


382  OTUO  THE  GREAT. 

Conrad,  I  leave  you  to  your  thoughts. 

{Exit, 
Atiranthe  {sold).  Down,  down,  proud  te-mper  !  down, 
Auranthe's  pride ! 
Why  do  I  anger  him  when  I  should  kneel  ? 
Conrad  !     Albert !  help  !  help  !     What  can  I  do  ? 

0  wretched  woman  !  lost,  wreck'd,  swallow'd  up, 
Accursed,  blasted !    O,  thou  golden  Crown, 
Orbing  along  the  serene  firmament 

Of  a  wide  empire,  like  a  glowing  moon; 

And  thou,  bright  sceptre  !  lustrous  in  m3^  eyes,— • 

There — as  the  fabled  fair  Hesperian  tree, 

Bearing  a  fruit  more  precious  !  graceful  thing. 

Delicate,  godlike,  magic !  must  I  leave 

Thee  to  melt  in  the  visionary  air. 

Ere,  by  one  grasp,  this  common  hand  is  made 

Imperial  ?    I  do  not  know  the  rime 

When  I  have  wept  for  sorrow  ;  but  methinks 

1  could  now  sit  upon  the  ground,  and  shed 
Tears,  tears  of  misery.     O,  the  heavy  day  ! 
How  shall  I  bear  my  life  till  Albert  comes  ? 
Ludolph  !     Erminia  !     Proofs  !     O  heavy  day  I 
Bring  me  some  mourning  weeds,  that  I  may  'tire 
Myself,  as  fits  one  wailing  her  own  death  : 

Cut  off  these  curls,  and  brand  this  lily  hand, 
And  throw  these  jewels  from  my  loathing  sight?-^^ 
Fetch  me  a  missal,  and  a  string  of  beads, — 
A  cup  of  bitter'd  water,  and  a  crust, — 
I  will  confess,  O  holy  Abbot ! — How  ! 
What  is  this  ?     Auranthe  !  thou  fool,  dolt, 
Whimpering  idiot !  up  !  up  !  and  quell  \ 
I  am  safe  !    Coward  !    why  am  I  in  fear  ? 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  383 

Albert !  he  cannot  stickle,  chew  the  cud 
In  such  a  fine  extreme, — impossible  ! 
Who  knjocks  ? 

[^Goes  to  the  door,  listens,  and  opens  it 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert,  5  have  been  waiting  for  you  here 
With  such  an  aching  heart,  such  swooning  throbs 
On  my  poor  brain,  such  cruel — cruel  sorrow. 
That  I  should  claim  your  pity  '    Art  not  well  ? 

Albert.  Yes,  lady,  well. 

Aiirojithc.  You  look  not  so,  alas  \ 

But  pale,  as  if  you  brought  some  heavy  news. 

Albert.  You  know  full  well  what  makes  me  look  so 
pale. 

Anranthe.  No  !    Do  I  .^     Surely  I  am  still  to  learn 
Some  horror ;  all  I  know,  this  present,  is 
I  am  near  hustled  to  a  dangerous  gulph, 
Which  you  can  save  me  from, — and  therefore  safe. 
So  trusting  in  thy  love  ;  that  should  not  make 
Thee  pale,  my  Albert. 

Albert.  It  doth  make  me  freeze. 

Aiiranthe.  Why  should  it,  love  } 

Albert.  You  should  not  ask  me  that, 

But  make  your  own  heart  monitor,  and  save 
Me  the  great  pain  of  telling.     You  must  know. 

Atiraiithe.  Something  has  vext  you,  Albert.    Thera 
are  times 
When  simplest  things  put  on  a  sombre  cast ; 
A  melancholy  mood  will  haunt  a  man, 
Until  most  easy  matters  take  the  shape 


384  077/(9   THE  GREAT. 

Of  unachievable  tasks  ;  small  rivulets 
Then  seem  impassable. 

Albert.  Do  not  cheat  yourself 

With  hope  that  gloss  of  words,  or  suppliant  action, 
Or  tears,  or  ravings,  or  self-threaten'd  death, 
Can  alter  my  resolve. 

Atiranthe.  You  make  my  tremble; 

Not  so  much  at  your  threats,  as  at  your  voice, 
Untuned,  and  harsh,  and  barren  of  all  love. 

Albert.  You  suffocate  me  !    Stop  this  devil's  parley, 
And  listen  to  me  ;  know  me  once  for  all. 

Auranthe.  I  thought  I  did.     Alas  !  I  am  deceived. 

Albert.  No,  you  are  not  deceived.    You  took  m.e  for 
A  man  detesting  all  inhuman  crime  : 
And  therefore  kept  frop  me  your  demon's  plot 
Against  Erminia.     Silent  t     Be  so  still ; 
Forever  !    Speak  no  more  ;  but  hear  my  words, 
Thy  fate.     Your  safety  I  have  bought  to-day 
By  blazoning  a  lie,  which  in  the  dawn 
I'll  expiate  with  truth. 

Auranthe,  O  cruel  traitor  ! 

Albert.  For  I  would  not  set  eyes  upon  thy  shame ; 
I  v/ould  not  see  thee  dragg'd  to  death  by  the  hair, 
Penanced,  and  taunted  on  a  scaffolding! 
To-night,  upon  the  skirts  of  the  blind  wood 
That  blackens  northward  of  these  horrid  towers, 
I  wait  for  you  with  horses.     Choose  your  fate. 
Farewell ! 

Auranthe.  Albert,  you  jest  ;  I'm  sure  you  must     ' 
You,  an  ambitious  Soldier  i    I,  a  Queen, 
One  who  could  say, — here,  rule  these  Provinces ! 
Take  tribute  from  those  cities  for  thyself ! 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  3^5 

Emptv  these  armories,  these  treasuries, 
Muster  thy  warlike  thousands  at  a  nod  ! 
Go  !  conquer  Italy  ! 

Albert.  Auranthe,  you  have  made 

The  whole  world  chaff  to  me.     Your  doom  is  fix'd. 

Aitranihe.  Out,  villain  !  dastard  ! 

Albert.  Look  there  to  the  door  \ 

Who  is  it  ? 

Auranthe.  Conrad,  traitor ! 

Albert.  Let  him  In. 

Enter  Conrad. 

Do  not  affect  amazement,  hypocrite. 
At  seeing  me  in  this  chamber. 

Conrad.  Auranthe  ? 

Albert.  Talk  not  with,  eyes,  but  speak  your  curses 
out 
Against  me,  who  would  sooner  crush  and  grind 
A  brace  of  toads,  than  league  with  them  t'oppress 
An  innocent  lady,  gull  an  Emperor, 
More  generous  to  me  than  autumn  sun 
To  ripening  harvests. 

Auranthe.  No  more  insult,  sir. 

Albert.  Ay,  clutch  your  scabbard  ;  but,  for  prudence 
sake. 
Draw  not  the  sword  ;  'twould  make  an  uproar,  Duke, 
You  would  not  hear  the  end  of.     At  nightfall 
Your  lady  sister,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Will  leave  this  busy  castle.     You  had  best 
Take  farewell  too  of  worldly  vanities. 

Conrad.  Vassal ! 

Albert.  To-morrow,  when  the  Emperor  sends 

25 


3^^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


For  loving  Conrad,  see  you  fawn  on  him. 
Good-even  ! 

Auranthc.  You'll  be  seen  ! 

Albert.  See  the  coast  clear  then. 

Auranthe  (as  he  goes).  Remorseless  Albert !    Cruel, 
cruel  wretch  ! 

\_Ske  lets  hint  out. 

Conrad.  So,  we  must  lick  the  dust  ? 

Auranthe.  I  follow  him. 

Conrad.   How  ?  Where  ?  The  plan  of  your  escape  ? 

Auranthe.  He  waits 

For  me  with  horses  by  the  forest-side, 
Northward. 

Conrad.  Good,  good  ;  he  dies.     You  go,  say  you } 

Auranthe.  Perforce. 

Conrad,  Be  speedy,  darkness  !     Till  that  comes, 
Fiends  keep  you  company  ! 

[_Exit. 

Auranthe,  And  you  !    And  you  ! 

And  all  men  !     Vanish  ! 

{Retires  to  an  inner  apartinent. 

Scene  IL — A^t  Apartment  hi  the  Castle. 
Etiter  LuDOLPH  and  Page. 

Page.  Still  very  sick,  my  lord  ;  but  now  I  went, 
And  there  her  women,  in  a  mournful  throng, 
Stood  in  the  passage  whispering  ;  if  any 
Moved,  'twas  with  careful  steps,  and  hush'd  as  death 
They  bade  me  stop. 

Ludolph.  Good  fellow,  once  again 

Make  soft  inquiry  ;  pr'ythee,  be  not  stay'd 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  387 

By  any  hindrance,  but  with  gentlest  force 

Break  through  her  weeping  servants,  till  thou  com'st 

E'en  to  her  chamber-door,  and  there,  fair  boy, — 

If  with  thy  mother's  milk  thou  hast  suck'd  in 

Any  divine  eloquence, — woo  her  ears 

With  plaints  for  me,  more  tender  than  the  voice 

Of  dying  Echo,  echoed. 

Page.  Kindest  master ! 

To  know  thee  sad  thus,  will  unloose  my  tongue 
In  mournful  syllables.     Let  but  my  words  reach 
Her  ears,  and  she  shall  take  them  coupled  with 
Moans  from  my  heart,  and  sighs  not  counterfeit. 
May  I  speed  better ! 

\Exit  Page* 

LtidolpJi  {solus),        Auranthe  !     My  life  ! 
Long  have  I  loved  thee,  yet  till  now  not  loved : 
Remembering,  as  I  do,  hard-hearted  times 
When  I  had  heard  e'en  of  thy  death  perhaps, 
And  thoughtless  ! — suffer'd  thee  to  pass  alone 
Into  Elysium  ! — now  I  follow  thee, 
A  substance  or  a  shadow,  wheresoe'er 
Thou  leadest  me, — whether  thy  white  feet  press, 
With  pleasant  weight,  the  amorous-aching  earth, 
Or  thro'  the  air  thou  pioneerest  me, 
A  shade  !     Yet  sadly  I  predestinate  ! 
O,  unbenignest  Love,  why  wilt  thou  let 
Darkness  steal  out  upon  the  sleepy  world 
So  wearily,  as  if  night's  chariot-wheels 
Were  clogg'd  in  some   thick  cloud  ?     O,  changeful 

Love, 
Let  not  her  steeds  with  drowsy-footed  pace 
Pass  the  high  stars,  before  sweet  embassage 


388  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Comes  from  the  pillow'd  beauty  of  that  fair 
Completion  of  all  delicate  Nature's  wit ! 
Pout  her  faint  lips  anew  with  rubious  health  ; 
And,  with  thine  infant  fingers,  lift  the  fringe 
Of  her  sick  eye-lids  ;  that  those  eyes  may  glow 
With  wooing  light  upon  me,  ere  the  morn 
Peers  with  disrelish,  gray,  barren,  and  cold  ! 

\Enter  Gersa  arid  Courtiers, 
Otho  calls  me  his  Lion, — should  I  blush 
To  be  so  tamed  ?  so — 

Gersa.  Do  me  the  courtesy, 

Gentlemen,  to  pass  on. 

\st  Knight.  We  are  your  servants. 

\Exeniit  Cotirtiers, 

Liidolph.  It  seems  then,  sir,  you  have  found  out  the 
man 
You  would  confer  with  ; — me  } 

Gersa.  If  I  break  not 

Too  much  upon  your  thoughtful  mood,  I  will 
Claim  a  brief  while  your  patience. 

Ludolph.  For  what  cause 

Soe'er,  I  shall  be  honor'd. 

Gersa.  I  not  less. 

Ludolph.  What  may  it  be  t  No  trifle  can  take  place 
Of  such  deliberate  prologue,  serious  'havior. 
But,  be  it  what  it  may,  I  cannot  fail 
To  listen  with  no  comnjon  interest ; 
For  tho'  so  new  your  presence  is  to  me, 
I  have  a  soldier's  friendship  for  your  fame. 
Please  you  explain. 

Gersa.  As  thus  : — for,  pardon  me, 

I  cannot,  in  plain  terms,  grossly  assault 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  389 

A  noble  nature  ;  and  would  faintly  sketch 
What  your  quick  apprehension  will  fill  up  ; 
So  finely  I  esteem  you. 
Liidolph.  I  attend. 

Gersa.  Your  generous  father,  most  illustrious  Otho, 
Sits  in  the  banquet-room  among  his  chiefs  ; 
His  wine  is  bitter,  for  you  are  not  there  ; 
His  eyes  are  fix'd  still  on  the  open  doors, 
And  ev'ry  passer  in  he  frowns  upon, 
Seeing  no  Ludolph  comes. 

Liidolph.  I  do  neglect. 

Gersa.    And   for   vour   absence   may   I   guess   the 

cause  } 
Liidolph.  Stay  there  !    No — guess  .''    More  princely 
you  must  be 
Than  to  make  guesses  at  me.     'Tis  enough. 
I'm  sorry  I  can  hear  no  more. 

Gersa.  And  I 

As  grieved  to  force  it  on  you  so  abrupt ; 
Yet,  one  day,  you  must  know  a  grief,  whose  sting 
Will  sharpen  more  the  longer  'tis  conceal'd. 

Ludolph.  Say  it  at  one 3  sir!    dead — dead — is  she 

dead  } 
Gersa.  Mine  is  a  cruel  task  :  she  is  not  dead, 
And  would,  for  your  sake,  she  were  innocent. 

Ludolph.  Hungarian  !    Thou  amazest  me  beyond 
All  scope  of  thought,  convulsest  my  heart's  blood 
To  deadly  churning  !     Gersa,  you  are  young, 
As  I  am  ;  let  me  observe  you,  face  to  face : 
Not  gray-brow'd  like  the  poisonous  Ethelbert, 
No  rheumed  eyes,  no  furrowing  of  age, 
No  wrinkles,  where  all  vices  nestle  in 


39°  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


Like  crannied  vermin, — no !  but  fresh,  and  young, 
And  hopeful  featured.     Ha !  by  Heaven  you  weep  ! 
Tears,  human  tears  !     Do  you  repent  you  then 
Of  a  curs'd  torturer's  office  ?     Why  shouldst  join, — 
Tell  me, — the  league  of  devils  ?     Confess — confess — • 
The  lie  ! 

Gersa.  Lie  ! — but  begone  all  ceremonious  points 
Of  honor  battailous  !     I  could  not  turn 
My  wrath  against  thee  for  the  orbed  world. 

Ltidolph.  Your    wrath    weak    boy  ?     Tremble    at 
mine,  unless 
Retraction  follow  close  upon  the  heels 
Of  that  late  stounding  insult !     Why  has  my  sword 
Not  done  already  a  sheer  judgment  on  thee  ? 
Despair,  or  eat  thy  words  !     Why,  thou  wast  nigh 
Whimpering  away  my  reason  !     Hark'e,  sir, 
It  is  no  secret,  that  Erminia, 
Erminia,  sir,  was  hidden  in  your  tent, — 
O  bless'd  asylum  !     Comfortable  home  ! 
Begone  !     I  pity  thee  ;  thou  art  a  gull, 
Erminia's  last  new  puppet ! 

Gersa.  Furious  fire ! 

Thou  mak'st  me  boil  as  hot  as  thou  canst  flame ! 
And  in  thy  teeth  I  give  thee  back  the  lie  ! 
Thou  licst  !     Thou,  Auranthe's  fool !     A  wittol ! 

Ltidolph.  Look  !  look  at  this  bright  sword  ; 
There  is  no  part  of  it,  to  the  very  hilt. 
But  shall  indulge  itself  about  thine  heart ! 
Draw  !  but  remember  thou  must  cower  thy  plumes, 
As  yesterday  the  Arab  made  thee  stoop. 

Gersa.  Patience  !     Not  here  ;    I  would  not  spill  thy 
blood 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  39 ' 

J  {ere,  underneath  this  roof  where  Otho  breathes, — 
Thy  father, — almost  mine. 

Ltidolph,  O  faltering  coward  ! 

\Eiiter  Page, 
Stay,  stay  ;  here  is  one  I  have  half  a  word  with. 
Well  ?     What  ails  thee,  child  ? 

Page.  My  lord ! 

Ltidolph.  What  wouldst  say  ? 

Page.  They  are  fled ! 

Ltidolph.  They  !     Who  ? 

Page.  When  anxiously 

I  hasten'd  back,  your  grieving  messenger, 
I  found  the  stairs  al)  dark,  the  lamps  extinct, 
And  not  a  foot  or  whisper  to  be  heard. 
I  thought  her  dead,  and  on  the  lowest  step 
Sat  listening  ;  when  presently  came  by 
Two  muffled  up, — one  sighing  heavily, 
The  other  cursing  low,  whose  voice  I  knew 
For  the  Duke  Conrad's.     Close  I  follow'd  them 
Thro'  the  dark  ways  they  chose  to  the  open  air ; 
And,  as  I  follow'd,  heard  my  lady  speak. 

Ltidolph.  Thy  life  answers  the  truth  ! 

Page.  The  chamber's  empty  I 

Ltidolph.  As  T  will  be  of  mercy  !     So,  at  last, 
This  nail  is  in  my  temples  ! 

Gersa.  Be  calm  in  this. 

Ltidolph.  I  am. 

Gersa.  And  Albert  too  has  disappear'd  ; 

Ere  I  met  you,  I  sought  him  everywhere  ; 
You  would  not  hearken. 

Ltidolph.  Which  way  went  they,  boy  ? 

Gersa.  I'll  hunt  with  you. 


392  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 


Ludolph.  No,  no,  no.     My  senses  are 

Still  whole.     I  have  survived.     My  arm  is  strong,— 

My  appetite  sharp  for  revenge !     I'll  no  sharer 

In  my  feast  ;  my  injury  is  all  my  own. 

And  so  is  my  revenge,  my  lawful  chattels  ! 

Terrier,  ferret  them  out !     Burn — burn  the  witch  ! 

Trace  me  their  footsteps  !     Away  ! 

\Exeunt 


ACT  V. 
Scene  I. — A  part  of  the  Forest, 
Enter  Conrad  and  Auranthe. 

Auranthe.  Go  no  further  ;  not  a  step  more.     Thou 
art 
A  master-plague  in  the  midst  of  miseries. 
Go, — I  fear  thee  !     I  tremble  every  limb, 
Who  never  shook  before.     There's  moody  death 
In  thy  resolved  looks  !     Yes,  I  could  kneel 
To  pray  thee  far  away  !     Conrad,  go  !  go  ! — 
There  !  yonder  underneath  the  boughs  I  see 
Our  horses  ! 

Conrad.        Ay,  and  the  man. 

Auranthe.  Yes,  he  is  there  I 

Go,  go, — no  blood !  no  blood !  go,  gentle  Conrad  ! 

Conrad.  Farewell ! 

Auranthe.  Farewell !    For  this  Heaven 

pardon  you  !  {Exit  Auranthe. 

Conrad.  If  he  survive  one  hour,  then  may  I  die 


OTIIO  THE  GREAT.  393 

In  unimagined  tortures,  or  breathe  through 
A  long  Hfe  in  the  foulest  sink  o'  the  world  ! 
He  dies  !     'Tis  well  she  do  not  advertise 
The  caitiff  of  the  cold  steel  at  his  back. 

\Exit  Conrad. 

Enter  LUDOLPH  and  Page. 

Ludolph.  Miss'd  the  way,  boy  ?    Say  not  that  on  your 
peril ! 

Page.  Indeed,  indeed  I  cannot  trace  them  further. 

Ltidolph.  Must  I  stop  here  ?    Here  solitary  die  ? 
Stifled  beneath  the  thick  oppressive  shade 
Of  these  dull  boughs, — this  oven  of  dark  thickets, — 
Silent, — without  revenge  ? — pshaw  ! — bitter  end, — 
A  bitter  death, — a  suffocating  death, — 
A  gnawing — silent — deadly,  quiet  death  ! 
Escaped  ? — fled  ? — vanish'd  ?  melted  into  air  ? 
She's  gone  !    I  cannot  clutch  her  !  no  revenge  1 
A  muffled  death,  ensnared  in  horrid  silence ! 
Suck'd  to  my  grave  amid  a  dreamy  calm  ! 
O,  where  is  that  illustrious  noise  of  war, 
To  smother  up  this  sound  of  laboring  breath, 
This  rustle  of  the  trees ! 

[AuRANTHE  shrieks  at  distance* 
Page.  My  lord,  a  noise  ! 

This  way — hark 

Ltidolph.  Yes,  yes  !    A  hope  !    A  music  ! 

A  glorious  clamor  !    How  I  live  again  ! 

\^Excutit. 


394  OTIIO  Trix^  GREAT. 


Scene  II. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Albert  {tvoicnded). 

Albert.  Oh !  for  enough  life  to  support  me  on 
To  Otho's  feet ! 

Ente7-  LUDOLPH. 

Ludolph.  Thrice  villanous,  stay  there  ! 

Tell  me  where  that  detested  woman  is, 
Or  this  is  through  thee  ! 

Albert.  My  good  Prince,  with  me 

The  sword  has  done  its  worst ;  not  without  worst 
Done  to  another, — Conrad  has  it  home  1 
I  see  you  know  it  all ! 

Ludolph.  Where  is  his  sister  ? 

Enter  Auranthe. 

Atira?ithe.  Albert ! 

Ludolph.  Ha !  There  !  there  ! — He  is  the  paramour  ! 
There — hug  him — dying  !    O,  thou  innocence, 
Shrine  him  and  comfort  him  at  his  last  gasp. 
Kiss  down  his  eyelids !    Was  he  not  thy  love? 
Wilt  thou  forsake  him  at  his  latest  hour  ? 
Keep  fearful  and  aloof  from  his  last  gaze. 
His  most  uneasy  moments,  when  cold  death 
Stands  with  the  door  ajar  to  let  him  in? 

Albert.    O  that  that  door  with  a  hollow  slam  would 
close 
Upon  me  sudden !  for  I  cannot  meet. 
In  all  the  unknown  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Such  horrors  ! 

Ludolph.    Auranthe  !    what  can  he  mean  ? 


OTHO  THE  CRUAT.  395 

What  horrors  ?    Is  it  not  a  joyous  time  ? 
Am  I  not  married  to  a  paragon 
"  Of  personal  beauty  and  untainted  soul  ? " 
A  blushing  fair-eyed  purity  ?     A  sylph, 
Whose  snowy  timid  hand  has  never  sinn'd 
Beyond  a  flower  pluck'd,  white  as  itself  ? 
Albert,  you  do  insult  my  bride — your  mistress — • 
To  talk  of  horrors  on  our  wedding-night  ! 

Albert.    Alas  !  poor  Prince,  I  would  you  knew  my 
heart ! 
'Tis  not  so  guilty— 

Ludo/ph.  Hear,  he  pleads  not  guilty  I 

You  are  not  ?  or,  if  so,  what  matters  it  ? 
You  have  escaped  me,  free  as  the  dusk  air, 
Hid  in  the  forest,  safe  from  my  revenge  ; 
I  cannot  catch  you  !     You  should  laugh  at  me, 
Poor  cheated  Ludolph !     Make  the  forest  hiss 
With  jeers  at  me  !     You  tremble — faint  at  once, 
You  will  come  to  again.     O  cockatrice, 
I  have  you!     Whither  wander  those  fair  eyes 
To  entice  the  devil  to  your  help,  that  he 
May  change  you  to  a  spider,  so  to  crawl 
Into  some  cranny  to  escape  my  wrath  ? 

Albert.  Sometimes  the  counsel  of  a  dying  man 
Doth  operate  quietly  when  his  breath  is  gone : 
Disjoin  those  hands — part — part — do  not  destroy 
Each  other — forget  her  ! — Our  miseries 
Are  equal  shared,  and  mercy  is — 

Ludolph.  A  boon 

When  one  can  compass  it.     Auranthe,  try 
Your  oratory ;  your  breath  is  not  so  hitch'd. 
Ay,  stare  for  help  !  [Albert  dies. 


39^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

There  goes  a  spotted  soul 
Howling  in  vain  along  the  hollow  night ! 
Hear  him  !    He  calls  you — sweet  Auranthe,  come ! 

Auranthe.  Kill  me  ! 

Ltidolph.  No  !    What  ?    Upon  our  mar- 

riage night  ? 
The  earth  would  shudder  at  so  foul  a  deed ! 
A  fair  bride  !     A  sweet  bride  I     An  innocent  bride  ! 
No  !  we  must  revel  it,  as  'tis  in  use 
In  times  of  delicate  brilliant  ceremony  : 
Come,  let  me  lead  you  to  our  halls  again ! 
Nay,  linger  not ;  make  no  resistance,  sweet ; — 
Will  you?     Ah,  wretch,  thou  canst  not,  for  I  have 
The  strength  of  twenty  lions  'gainst  a  lamb  ! 
Now — one  adieu  for  Albert ! — Come  away  ! 

\Exeimt* 

■   Scene  HI. — An  inner  Court  of  the  Castle, 
Enter  Sigifred,  Gonfred,  and  Theodore,  meeting. 

1st  Knight.  Was  ever  such  a  night  ? 

Sigifred.  What  horrors  more  ? 

Things  unbelieved  one  hour,  so  strange  they  are, 
The  next  hour  stamps  with  credit. 

1st  Knight.  Your  last  news  ? 

Gonfred.  After  the  page's  story  of  the  death 
Of  Albert  and  Duke  Conrad  ? 

Sigifred.  And  the  return 

Of  Ludolph  with  the  Princess. 

Gonfred.  No  more,  save 

Prince  Gersa's  freeing  Abbot  Ethelbert, 
And  the  sweet  lady,  fair  Erminia, 
From  Drison. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  39? 

\st  Knight.  Where  are  they  now  ?    Hast  yet  heard  ? 

Gonfrcd.  With  the  sad  Emperor  they  are  closeted  ; 
I  saw  the  three  pass  slowly  up  the  stairs, 
The  lady  weeping,  the  old  abbot  cowl'd. 

Sigifred,  What  next  ? 

\st  Knight.  I  ache  to  think  on't. 

Gonfred.  'Tis  with  fate. 

\st  Knight.     One   while   these   proud    towers   are 
hush'd  as  death. 

Go7tfred,  The  next  our  poor  Prince  fills  the  arched 
rooms 
With  ghastly  ravings. 

Sigifred.  I  do  fear  his  brain. 

Gonfred.  I  will  see  more.    Bear  you  so  stout  a  heart  } 

\Excunt  ijito  the  Castle, 

Scene  IV.  A  Cabinet  opening  toivards  a  Terrace. 

Otho,  Erminia,  Ethelbert,  atid  a  Physician  discovered. 

Otho.  O,  my  poor  boy  !     My  son  !     My  son  !     My 
Ludolph  ! 
Have  ye  no  comfort  for  me,  ye  physicians 
Of  the  weak  body  and  soul } 

Ethelbert.  'Tis  not  in  medicine 

Either  of  heaven  or  earth,  to  cure,  unless 
Fit  time  be  chosen  to  administer. 

Otho.  A  kind  forbearance,  holy  abbot.     Come, 
Erminia ;  here,  sit  by  me,  gentle  girl ; 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  hast  thou  forgiven  me  } 

Erminia.  Would  I  were  with  the  saints  to  pray  for 
you  ! 

Otho.  Why  will  ye  keep  me  from  my  darling  child  ? 


39^  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Physician.  Forgive  me,  but  he  must  not  see  thy 
face. 

Otho.  Is  then  a  father's  countenance  a  Gorgon  ? 
Hath  it  not  comfort  in  it?    Would  it  not 
Console  my  poor  boy  cheer  him,  heal  his  spirits  ? 
Let  me  embrace  him  ;  let  me  speak  to  him  ; 
I  will !    Who  hinders  me  ?    Who's  Emperor? 

Physician.  You  may  not,  Sire ;  'twould  overwhelm 
him  quite, 
He  is  so  full  of  grief  and  passionate  wrath  ; 
Too  heavy  a  sigh  would  kill  him,  or  do  worse. 
He  must  be  saved  by  fine  contrivances ; 
And,  most  especially,  we  must  keep  clear 
Out  of  his  sight  a  father  whom  he  loves  ; 
His  heart  is  full,  it  can  contain  no  more, 
And  do  its  ruddy  office. 

Ethelbert.  Sage  advice ; 

We  must  endeavor  how  to  ease  and  slacken 
The  tight-wound  energies  of  his  despair, 
Not  make  them  tenser. 

Otho.  Enough!     I  hear,  I  hear. 

Yet  you  were  about  to  advise  more, — I  listen. 

Ethelbert.  This  learned  doctor  will  agree  with  me. 
That  not  in  the  smallest  point  should  he  be  thwarted, 
Or  gainsaid  by  one  word  ;  his  very  motions. 
Nods,  becks,  and  hints,  should  be  obey'd  with  care, 
Even  on  the  momeiit ;  so  his  troubled  mind 
May  cure  itself. 

Physicia7z.  There  are  no  other  means. 

Otho.  Open  the  door  ;  let's  hear  if  all  is  quiet. 

Physician.  Beseech  you.  Sire,  forbear. 

Ermifda.  Do,  do. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  399 

Otho.  I  command ! 

Open  it  straight ; — hush  ! — quiet ! — my  lost  boy  ! 
My  miserable  child ! 

Ljidolph  {indistmctly  without).     Fill,  fill  my  goblet, 
— here's  a  health  ! 

Ermifiia.  O,  close  the  door  ! 

Otho.  Let,  let  me  hear  his  voice ;    this  cannot  last ; 
And  fain  would  I  catch  up  his  dying  words, 
Though  my  own  knell  they  be  !    This  cannot  last  I 
O  let  me  catch  his  voice — for  lo !  I  hear 
A  whisper  in  this  silence  that  he's  dead ! 
It  is  so !     Gersa  ? 

Enter  Gersa. 

Physician.  Say,  how  fares  the  prince  ? 

Gersa.  More  calm  ;  his  features  are  less  wild  and 
flush'd; 
Once  he  complain'd  of  weariness. 

Physician.  Indeed ! 

'Tis  good, — 'tis  good  ;  let  him  but  fall  asleep, 
That  saves  him. 

Otho.  Gersa,  watch  him  like  a  child  ; 

Ward  him  from  harm, — and  bring  me  better  news  ! 

Physician.  Humor  him  to  the  height.    I  fear  to  go ; 
For  should  he  catch  a  glimpse  of  my  dull  garb, 
It  might  affright  him,  fill  him  with  suspicion 
That  v/e  believe  him  sick,  which  must  not  be. 

Gersa.  I  will  invent  what  soothing  means  I  can. 

\Exit  Gersa. 

Physician.  This  should  cheer  up  your  Highness  j 
weariness 
Is  a  good  symptom,  and  most  favorable ; 


400  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

It  gives  me  pleasant  hopes.     Please  you,  walk  forth 

Upon  the  terrace  ;  the  refreshing  air 

Will  blow  one  half  of  your  sad  doubts  away. 

\ExeunU 


Scene  V.  —  A  Banqueting  Hall,  brilliantly  ilhimi- 
nated,  and  set  forth  with  all  costly  magnificence^ 
with  Supper-tables,  laden  with  services  of  Gold 
and  Silver.  A  door  in  the  back  scene,  guarded  by 
two  Soldie7's.  Lords,  Ladies,  Knights,  Gentlemen, 
&c.,  whispering  sadly,  and  ranging  themselves ; 
part  entering  and  part  discovered. 

1st  Kjiight.  Grievously  are  we  tantalized,  one  and 
all; 
Sway'd  here  and  there,  commanded  to  and  fro, 
As  though  we  were  the  shadows  of  a  sleep, 
And  link'd  to  a  dreaming  fancy.      What  do  we  here  ? 

Gonfred.  T  am  no  seer  ;  you  know  we  must  obey 
The  prince  from  A  to  Z,  though  it  should  be 
To  set  the  place  in  flames.     I  pray,  hast  heard 
Where  the  most  wicked  Princess  is  ? 

\st  Knight.  There,  sir, 

In  the  next  room  ;  have  you  remark'd  those  two 
Stout  soldiers  posted  at  the  door  ? 

Gonfred.  For  what  ? 

\They  whisper. 

1st  Lady.    How  ghast  a  train  ! 

2d  Lady.  Sure  this  should  be  some  splendid  burial. 

1st  Lady.  What   fearful  whispering!     See,  see, — 
Gersa  there  ! 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  401 

Enter  Gersa. 

Gersa.  Put  on  your  brightest  looks  ;  smile  if  you  can ; 
Behave  as  all  were  happy  ;  keep  your  eyes 
From  the  least  watch  upon  him  ;  if  he  speaks 
To  any  one,  answer,  collectedly, 
Without  surprise,  his  questions,  howe'er  strange. 
Do  this  to  the  utmost, — though,  alas  !  with  me 
The  remedy  grows  hopeless  !     Here  he  comes, — 
Observe  what  I  have  said, — show  no  surprise. 

Enter  iM'DOl.VYi.,  followed  by  SiGiFRED  and  Pa ^e. 

Ltidolph.  A  splendid  company  !  rare  beauties  here  I 

I  should  have  Orphean  lips,  and  Plato's  fancy, 

Amphion's  utterance,  tcned  with  his  lyre. 

Or  the  deep  key  of  Jove's  sonorous  mouth. 

To  give  fit  salutation.     Methought  I  heard. 

As  I  came  in,  some  whispers, — what  of  that  ? 

'Tis  natural  men  should  whisper;  at  the  kiss 

Of  Psyche  given  by  Love,  there  was  a  buzz 

Among  the  gods  ! — and  silence  is  as  natural. 

These  draperies  are  fine,  and,  being  a  mortal, 

I  should  desire  no  better  ;  yet,  in  truth. 

There  must  be  some  superior  costliness. 

Some  wider-domed  high  magnificence  ! 

I  would  have,  as  a  mortal  I  may  not. 

Hangings  of  heaven's  clouds,  purple  and  gold, 

Slung  from  the  spheres;  gauzes  of  silver  mist, 

Loop'd  up  with  cords  of  twisted  light, 

And  tassell'd  round  with  weeping  meteor?  ! 

These  pendent  lamps  and  chandeliers  are  bright 

As  earthly  fires  from  dull  dross  can  be  cleansed  ; 

Yet  could  my  eyes  drink  up  intenser  beams 

26 


402  OTHO  THE  GREAT, 

Undazzled, — this  is  darkness, — when  I  close 
These  lids,  I  see  far  fiercer  brilliancies, — 
Skies  full  of  splendid  moons,  and  shooting  stars, 
And  spouting  exhalations,  diamond  fires, 
And  panting  fountains  quivering  with  deep  glows . 
Yes — this  is  dark — is  it  not  dark  ? 

Sigifrcd,  My  Lord, 

Tis  late  ;  the  lights  of  festival  are  ever 
Ouench'd  in  the  morn. 

LudolpJu   -  'Tis  not  to-morrow  then  ? 

Sigifrcd.     'Tis  early  dawn. 

Gersa.  Indeed  full  time  we  slept ; 

Say  you  so,  Prince  .'* 

Lndolph.  I  say  I  quarrell'd  with  you , 

We  did  not  tilt  each  other, — that's  a  blessing, — 
Good  gods !  no  innocent  blood  upon  my  head  ! 

Sigifred.  Retire,  Gersa! 

Lndolph.  There  should  be  three  more  here : 

For  two  of  them,  they  stay  away  perhaps, 
Being  gloomy-minded,  haters  of  fair  revels, — 
They  know  their  own  thoughts  best. 

As  for  the  third. 
Deep  blue  eyes,  semi-shaded  in  white  lids, 
Finish'd  with  lashes  fine  for  more  soft  shade, 
Completed  by  her  twin-arch'd  ebon-brows  ; 
White  temples,  of  exactest  elegance, 
Of  even  mould,  felicitous  and  smooth  ; 
Cheeks  fashion'd  tenderly  on  either  side, 
So  perfect,  so  divine,  that  our  poor  eyes 
Are  dazzled  with  the  sweet  proportioning, 
And  wonder  that  'tis  so, — the  magic  chancel 
Her  nostrils,  small,  fragrant,  fairy-delicate ; 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  403 

Her  lips — I  swear  no  human  bones  e'er  wore 
So  taking  a  disguise ; — you  shall  behold  her  ! 
We'll  have  her  presently  ;  ay,  you  shall  see  her, 
And  wonder  at  her,  friends,  she  is  so  fair ; 
She  is  the  world's  chief  jewel,  and,  by  heaven, 
She's  mine  by  right  of  marriage  ! — she  is  mine ! 
Patience,  good  people,  in  fit  time  I  send 
A  summoner, — she  will  obey  my  call. 
Being  a  wife  most  mild  and  dutiful. 
First  I  would  hear  what  music  is  prepared 
To  herald  and  receive  her ;  let  me  hear ! 

Sigifred.  Bid  the  musicians  soothe  him  tenderly. 

\^A  soft  stj'ain  of  Music. 

Ludolph.  Ye  have  none  better?  No,  I  am  content ; 
*Tis  a  rich  sobbing  melody,  with  reliefs 
Full  and  majestic  ;  it  is  well  enough. 
And  will  be  sweeter,  when  ye  see  her  pace 
Sweeping  into  this  presence,  glisten'd  o'er 
With  emptied  caskets,  and  her  train  upheld 
By  ladies,  habited  in  robes  of  lawn, 
Sprinkled  with  golden  crescents,  others  bright 
In  silks,  with  spangles  shower'd,  and  bow'd  to 
By  Duchesses  and  pearled  Margravines  ! 
Sad,  that  the  fairest  creature  of  the  earths- 
I  pray  you  mind  me  not — 'tis  sad,  I  say. 
That  the  extremest  beauty  of  the  world 
Should  so  entrench  herself  away  from  me. 
Behind  a  barrier  of  engender'd  guilt  ! 

2d  Lady.  Ah  !  what  a  moan  ! 

\st  Knight.  Most  piteous  indeed! 

Ludolph.  She  shall  be  brought  before  this  company, 
And  then — then — 


404  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

1st  Lady.  He  muses. 

Gersa.  O,  Fortune,  where  will  this  end  ? 

Sigifred.  I  guess  his  purpose  !    Indeed  he  must  not 
have 
That  pestilence  brought  in, — that  cannot  be, 
There  we  must  stop  him. 

Gersa,  I  am  lost !     Hush,  hush  I 

He  is  about  to  rave  again. 

LtidolpJi.  A  barrier  of  guilt !     I  was  the  fool, 
She  was  the  cheater !    Who's  the  cheater  now, 
And  who  the  fool  t     The  entrapp'd,  the  caged  fool, 
The  bird-limed  raven  }     She  shall  croak  to  death 
Secure  !     Methinks  I  have  her  in  my  fist, 
To  crush  her  with  my  heel  !     Wait,  wait !     I  marvel 
My  father  keeps  away.     Good  friend — ah  !  Sigifred  ? 
Do  bring  him  to  me, — and  Erminia, 
I  fain  would  see  before  I  sleep — and  Ethelbert, 
That  he  may  bless  me,  as  I  know  he  will, 
Though  I  have  cursed  him. 

Sigifred.  Rather  suffer  me 

To  lead  you  to  them. 

Ltidolph.  No,  excuse  me, — no  ! 

The  day  is  not  quite  done.     Go,  bring  them  hither. 

\Exit  Sigifred. 
Certes,  a  father's  smile  should,  like  sunlight. 
Slant  on  my  sheaved  harvest  of  ripe  bliss. 
Besides,  I  thirst  to  pledge  my  lovely  bride 
In  a  deep  goblet :  let  me  see — what  wine  } 
The  strong  Iberian  juice,  or  mellow  Greek? 
Or  pale  Calabrian  ?     Or  the  Tuscan  grape  .'* 
Or  of  old  Etna's  pulpy  wine-presses, 
B.ack  stain'd  with  the  fat  vintage,  as  it  were 


OTHO  THE  GREAT.  405 

The  purple  slaughter-house,  where  Bacehus'  self 
Prick'd  his  own  swollen  veins  !    Where  is  my  page  ? 

Page.   Here,  here ! 

Ludolph.  Be  ready  to  obey  me  ;  anon  thou  shalt 
Bear  a  soft  message  for  me  ;  for  the  hour 
Draws  near  when  I  must  make  a  winding  up 
Of  bridal  mysteries — a  fine-spun  vengeance  ! 
Carve  it  on  my  tomb,  that,  when  I  rest  beneath, 
Men  shall  confess,  this  Prince  was  guU'd  and  cheated. 
But  from  the  ashes  of  disgrace  he  rose 
IVIore  than  a  fiery  dragon,  and  did  burn 
His  ignominy  up  in  purging  fires  ! 
Did  I  not  send,  sir,  but  a  moment  past, 
For  my  father  ? 

Gersa.  You  did. 

Licdolph.  Perhaps  t would  be 

Much  better  he  came  not 

Gersa,  He  enters  now ! 

Enter  Otho,  Erminia,  Ethelbert,  Sigifred,  atid  Physician, 

Ltidolph,  Oh  !  thou  good  man,  against  whose  sacred 
head 
I  was  a  mad  conspirator,  chiefly  too 
For  the  sake  of  my  fair  newly  wedded  wife, 
Now  to  be  punish'd ! — do  not  look  so  sad! 
Those  charitable  eyes  will  thaw  my  heart, 
Those  tears  will  wash  away  a  just  resolve, 
A  verdict  ten  times  sworn  !    Awake — awake — 
Put  on  a  judge's  brow,  and  use  a  tongue 
Made  iron-stern  by  habit !     Thou  shalt  see 
A  deed  to  be  applauded,  'scribed  in  ^old ! 


406  OTHO  THE  GREAT. 

Join  a  loud  voice  to  mine,  and  so  denounce 
What  I  alone  will  execute  ! 

Otho.  Dear  son, 

What  is  it  ?     By  your  father's  love,  I  sue 
That  it  be  nothing  merciless! 

Ludolph.  To  that  demon  ? 

Not  so  !    No  !    She  is  in  temple-stall 
Being  garnish'd  for  the  sacrifice,  and  I, 
The  Priest  of  Justice,  will  immolate  her 
Upon  the  altar  of  wrath  !    She  stings  me  through! — • 
Even  as  the  worm  doth  feed  upon  the  nut, 
So  she,  a  scorpion,  preys  upon  my  brain  ! 
I  feel  her  gnawing  here  !     Let  her  but  vanish, 
Then,  father,  I  will  lead  your  legions  forth. 
Compact  in  steeled  squares,  and  speared  files, 
And  bid  our  trumpets  speak  a  fell  rebuke 
To  nations  drowsed  in  peace  ! 

Otho.  To-morrow,  son, 

Be  your  word  law  ;  forget  to-day — 

Ludolph.  I  will 

When  I  have  finished  it !     Now, — now,  I'm  pight, 
Tight-footed  for  the  deed  ! 

Erminia.  Alas  !  Alas  ! 

Ludolph.  What  angel's  voice  is  that  ?     Erminia  ! 
Ah  !  gentlest  creature,  whose  sweet  innocence 
Was  almost  murder'd  ;  I  am  penitent, 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me  ?    And  thou,  holy  man, 
GoodEthelbert,  shall  I  die  in  peace  with  you? 

Erminia.  Die,  my  lord  ! 

L?idolph.  I  feel  it  possible. 

Otho.  Physician  I 

Physician.  I  fear  me  he  is  past  my  skill. 


OTITO  THE  GREAT.  407 

Otho.  Not  so  ! 

Licdolpk.  I  see  it — I  see  it — I  have  been  wandering ! 
Half  mad — not  right  here — I  forget  my  purpose. 
Bestir — bestir — Auranthe !     Ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Youngster !  Page !  go  bid  them  drag  her  to  me  ! 
Obey  !     This  shall  finish  it !  \^Draws  a  dagger. 

Otho.  Oh,  my  son  !   my  son  ! 

Sigifred.  This  must  not  be — stop  there  ! 

LiLdolph.  Am  I  obey'd  ? 

A  httle  talk  with  her — no  harm — haste  !  haste  ! 

\Exit  Page. 
Set  her  before  me — never  fear  I  can  strike. 

Several  Voices.  My  Lord  !  My  Lord  ! 

Gersa.  Good  Prince ! 

Ludolph.  Why  do  you  trouble  me  }  out — out — away  ! 
There  she  is  !    take  that !   and  that !    no,  no, 
That's  not  well  done. — where  is  she  t 

[  The  doors  open.     Enter  Pi\(:[e.     Several  women  are  seen  grouped  about 
Auranthe  in  the  inner-room. 

Page.  Alas  !  My  Lord,  my  Lord  !  they  cannot  move 
her! 
Her  arms  stiff, — her  fingers  clench'd  and  cold  ! 

Ludolph.  She's  dead 

\^Stagger5  and  falls  into  their  arms, 

Ethelbert.  Take  away  the  dagger. 

Gersa.  Softly  ;  so  ! 

Otho.  Thank  God  for  that ! 

Sigifred.  It  could  not  harm  him  now. 

Gersa.  No  ! — brief  be  his  anguish  !        [good-night ! 

Ludolph.    She's    gone !     I    am    content  —  Nobles, 
We  are  all  weary — faint — set  ope  the  doors — 
I  will  to  bed  ! — To-morrow —  [Dies, 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 


4oS  KING  STEPHEN. 


KING   STEPHEN. 

A     DRAMATIC     FRAGMENT. 


ACT    I. 

Scene   I. — Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum.    Enter  King  Stephen,  Knights,  and  Soldiers, 

Stephen.  If  shame  can  on  a  soldier's  vein-swoU'n 
front 
Spread  deeper  crimson  than  the  battle's  toil, 
Blush  in  your  casing  helmets  !  for  see,  see ! 
Yonder  my  chivalry,  my  pride  of  war, 
Wrench'd  with  an  iron  hand  from  firm  array, 
Are  routed  loose  about  the  plashy  meads. 
Of  honor  forfeit.     O,  that  my  known  voice 
Could  reach  your  dastard  ears,  and  fright  you  more ! 
Fly,  cowards,  fly  !  Glocester  is  at  your  backs  ! 
Throw  your  slack  bridles  o'er  the  flurried  manes, 
Ply  well  the  rowel  with  faint  trembling  heels, 
Scampering  to  death  at  last ! 

\st  Knight.  The  enemy 

Bears  his  flaunt  standard  close  upon  their  rear. 

2d  K7tight.    Sure  of  a  bloody  prey,  seeing  the  fens 
Will  swamp  them  girth-deep. 

Stephen.  Over  head  and  ears. 

No  matter  !   'Tis  a  gallant  enemy ; 


KING  STEPHEN.  4O9 


How  like  a  comet  he  goes  streaming  on. 

But  we  must  plague  him  in  the  flank, — hey,  friends? 

We  are  well  breath'd, — follow  ! 

Enter  Earl  BALDWIN  and  Soldiers,  as  defeated. 

Stephen.  De  Redvers ! 

What  is  the  monstrous  bugbear  that  can  fright 
Baldwin  ? 

Baldwin.    No  scare-crow,  but  the  fortunate  star. 
Of  boisterous  Chester,  whose  fell  truncheon  now 
Points  level  to  the  goal  of  victory. 
This  way  he  comes,  and  if  you  would  maintain 
Your  person  unaffronted  by  vile  odds. 
Take  horse,  my  Lord. 

Stephen.  And  which  way  spur  for  life  ? 

Now  r  thank  Heaven  I  am  in  the  toils, 
That  soldiers  may  bear  witness  how  ray  arm 
Can  burst  the  meshes.     Nor  the  eagle  more 
Loves  to  beat  up  against  a  tyrannous  blast, 
Than  I  to  meet  the  torrent  of  my  foes. 
This  is  a  brag, — be't  so, — but  if  I  fall. 
Carve  it  upon  my  'scutcheon'd  sepulchre. 
On,  fellow  soldiers  !    Earl  of  Redvers,  back  ! 
Not  twenty  Earls  of  Chester  shall  browbeat 
The  diadem. 

[Ex en  J  it,   AlariiTTU 

Scene  U. — Another  part  of  the  field. 

Trumpets  sounding  a  Victory.    Enter  Glocester,  Knights,  and  For ctu 

Gloccster.  Now  may  we  lift  our  bruised  visors  up,  1 
And  take  the  flattering  freshness  of  the  air, 
While  the  wide  din  of  battle  dies  away 


41 0  KING  STEPHEN. 


Into  times  past,  yet  to  be  echoed  sure 
In  the  silent  pages  of  our  chroniclers. 

\st  K flight.    Will  Stephen's  death  be  mark'd  there, 
my  good  Lord, 
Or  that  we  gave  him  lodging  in  yon  towers  ? 

Glocester.   Fain  would  I  know  the  great  usurper's 
fate. 

Enter  two  Captains  severally, 

\st  Captain.    My  lord  ! 

2d  Captain.    Most  noble  Earl ! 

\st  Captain.   The  King — 

2d  Captaifi.  The  Empress  greets— 

Glocester.    What  of  the  King  } 

1st  Captain.  He  sole  and  lone  maintains 

A  hopeless  bustle  'mid  our  swarming  arms, 
And  with  a  nimble  savageness  attacks, 
Escapes,  makes  fiercer  onset,  then  anew 
Eludes  death,  giving  death  to  most  that  dare 
Trespass  within  the  circuit  of  this  sword ! 
He  must  by  this  have  fallen.     Baldwin  is  taken  ; 
And  for  the  Duke  of  Bretagne,  like  a  stag 
He  flies,  for  the  Welsh  beagles  to  hunt  down. 
God  save  the  Empress. 

Glocester.  Now  our  dreaded  Queen  : 

What  message  from  her  Highness  } 

2d  Captain.  Royal  Maud. 

From    the   throng'd    towers  of  Lincoln   hath  look'd 

down, 
Like  Pallas  from  the  walls  of  Ilion, 
And  seen  her  enemies  havock'd  at  her  feet. 
She  greets  most  noble  Glocester  from  her  heart, 


KING  STEPHEN,  4II 


Entreating  him,  his  captains,  and  brave  knights, 
To  grace  a  banquet.     The  high  city  gate? 
Are  envious  which  shall  see  your  triumph  pass ; 
The  streets  are  full  of  music. 

Enter  2d  Knight. 

Glocester.  Whence  come  you  ? 

2d  Kniglit.  From  Stephen,  my  good  Prince, — 

Stephen  I  Stephen ! 
Glocester.  Why  do  you  make  such   echoing  of  his 

name  ? 
2d  Knight,     Because  I   think,    my  lord,  he  is  no 
man. 
But  a  fierce  demon,  'nointed  safe  from  wounds, 
And  misbaptized  with  a  Christian  name. 

Glocester.     A  mighty  soldier ! — Does  he  still  hold 

out? 
2d  Knight.    He    shames    our   victory.     His    valor 
still 
Keeps  elbow-room  amid  our  eager  swords. 
And  holds  our  bladed  falchions  all  aloof — 
His  gleaming  battle-axe  being  slaughter-sick. 
Smote  on  the  morion  of  a  Flemish  knight. 
Broke  short  in  his  hand  :  upon  the  which  he  flung 
The  heft  away  with  such  a  vengeful  force. 
It  paunch'd  the  Earl  of  Chester's  horse,  who  then 
Spleen-hearted  came  in  full  career  at  him. 

Glocester.  Did  no  one  take  him  at  a  vantage  then  ? 
2d  Knight.  Three  then  with  tiger  leap   upon  him 
flew, 
Whom,  with  his  sword  swift-drawn  and  nimbly  held, 
He  stung  away  again,  and  stood  to  breathe. 


412  KING  STEPHEN. 

Smiling.     Anon  upon  him  rush'd  once  more 
A  throng  of  foes,  and  in  this  renew'd  strife, 
My  sword  met  his  and  snapp'd  off  at  the  hilt. 

Glocester.  Come,  lead  me  to  this  man — and  let  us 
move 
In  silence,  not  insulting  his  sad  doom 
With  clamorous  trumpets.     To  the  Empress  beai 
My  salutation  as  befits  the  time. 

\Exeimt  Glocester  attd  Forces. 

Scene  III.  —  The^  Field  of  Battle.     E titer  Stephen 

unarmed. 

Stephen.  Another  sword  !  And  what  if  I  could  seize 
One  from  Bellona's  gleaming  armory, 
Or  choose  the  fairest  of  her  sheaved  spears  ! 
Where  are  my  enemies }     Here,  close  at  hand, 
Here  come  the  testy  brood.     O,  for  a  sword  ! 
I'm  faint — a  biting  sword  !    A  noble  sword  ! 
A  hedge-stake — or  a  ponderous  stone  to  hurl 
With  brawny  vengeance,  like  the  laborer  Cain. 
Come  on  !     Farewell  my  kingdom,,  and  all  hail 
Thou  superb,  plumed,  and  helmeted  renown, 
All  hail — I  would  not  truck  this  brilliant  day 
To  rule  in  Pylos  with  a  Nestor's  beard — • 
Come  on ! 

Enter  De  Kaims  and  Knights,  d^c. 

De  Kaims.  Is't  madness  or  a  hunger  after  deaths 
That  makes  thee  thus  unarm'd  throw  taunts  at  us  ?^ 
Yield,  Stephen,  or  my  sword's  point  dips  in 
The  gloomy  current  of  a  traitor's  heart. 

Stephen.  Do  it,  De  Kaims,  I  will  not  budge  an  inch. 


KING  STEPHEN-.  4^3 


De  Kaims.  Yes,  of  thy  madness  thou  shalt  take  the 
meed. 

Stephen.  Barest  thou  ? 

De  Kaims.  •     How  dare,  against  a  man 

disarm'd  ? 

Stephen.  What  weapons  has  the  lion  but  himself  ? 
Come  not  near  me,  De  Kaims,  for  by  the  price 
Of  all  the  glory  I  have  won  this  day, 
Being  a  king,  I  will  not  yield  alive 
To  any  but  the  second  man  of  the  realm, 
Robert  of  Glocester. 

De  Kaims.  Thou  shalt  vail  to  me. 

Stephen.  Shall  I,  when  I  have  sworn  against  it,  sir? 
Thou  think'st  it  brave  to  take  a  breathing  king, 
That,  on  a  court-day  bow'd  to  haughty  Maud, 
The  awed  presence-chamber  may  be  bold 
To  whisper,  there's  the  man  who  took  alive 
Stephen — me — prisoner.     Certes,  De  Kaims 
The  ambition  is  a  noble  one. 

De  Kaims.  *Tis  true, 

And,  Stephen,  I  must  compass  it. 

Stephen,  No,  no. 

Do  not  tempt  me  to  throttle  you  on  the  gorge. 
Or  with  my  gauntlet  crush  your  hollow  breast, 
Just  when  your  knighthood  is  grown  ripe  and  full 
For  lordship. 

A  Soldier.     Is  an  honest  yeoman's  spear 
Of  no  use  at  a  need  }     Take  that. 

Stephen.  Ah,  dastard  ! 

De  Kaims.  What,  you  are  vulnerable  !  my  prisoner! 

Stephen.  No,  not  yet.     I  disclaim  it,  and  demand 
Death  as  a  sovereign  right  unto  a  king 


4^4  KING  STEPHEN. 


Who  'sdains  to  yield  to  any  but  his  peer, 

If  not  in  title,  yet  in  noble  deeds, 

The  Earl  of  Glocester.     Stab  to  the  hilt,  De  KaimB, 

For  I  will  never  by  mean  hands  be  led 

From  this  so  famous  field.     Do  you  hear  !     Be  quick ! 

Trtimfets.     Enter  the  Earl  of  C  HESTER  and  Knights. 

Scene  IV. — A  Presence  Chamber.  Queen  Maud  in  a 
Chair  of  State,  the  Earls  of  Glocester  and 
Chester,  Lords ,  Attendants. 

Maud.    Glocester,-  no    more  :   I   will   behold   that 
Boulogne  : 
Set  him  before  me.     Nor  for  the  poor  sake 
Of  regal  pomp  and  ".  vain-glorious  hour, 
As  thou  with  wary  speech,  yet  near  enough, 
Has  hinted. 

Glocester.  Faithful  counsel  have  I  given  ; 
If  wary,  for  your  Highness'  benefit. 

Maud.  The  Heavens  forbid  that  I  should  not  think 
For  by  thy  valor  have  I  won  this  realm. 
Which  by  thy  wisdom  I  will  ever  keep. 
To  sage  advisers  let  me  ever  bend 
A  meek  attentive  ear,  so  that  they  treat 
Of  the  wide  kingdom's  rule  and  government, 
Not  trenching  on  our  actions  personal. 
Advised,  not  school'd,  I  would  be ;  and  henceforth 
Spoken  to  in  clear,  plain,  and  open  terms, 
Not  side-ways  sermon'd  at. 

Glocester.  Then  in  plain  terms. 

Once  more  for  the  fallen  king — 

Maud.  .    '  Your  pardon,  Brother, 

I  would  no  more  of  that ;  for,  as  I  said,  ' 


KING  STEPHEN.  415 


*Tis  not  for  worldly  pomp  T  wish  to  see 
The  rebel,  but  as  dooming  judge  to  give 
A  sentence  something  worthy  of  his  guilt. 

Glocester,  If't  must  be  so,  I'll  bring  him  to  your 
presence. 

\Exit  Glocester. 

Maud.  A  meaner  summoner  might  do  as  well — 
My  Lord  of  Chester,  is't  true  what  I  hear 
Of"  Stephen  of  Boulogne,  our  prisoner, 
That  he,  as  a  fit  penance  for  his  crimes, 
Eats  wholesome,  sweet,  and  palatable  food 
Off  Glocester's  golden  dishes — drinks  pure  wine, 
Lodges  s       ? 

Chester.  More  than  that,  my  gracious  Queen 

Has  anger'd  me.     The  noble  Earl,  methinks, 
Full  soldier  as  he  is,  and  without  peer 
In  counsel,  dreams  too  much  among  his  books. 
It  may  read  well,  but  sure  'tis  out  of  date 
To  play  the  Alexander  with  Darius. 

Maud.  Truth  !     I  think  so.     By  Heavens  it  shall 
not  last ! 

Chestci\  It  would  amaze  your  Highness  now  to  mark 
How  Glocester  overstrains  his  courtesy 
To  that  crime-loving  rebel,  that  Boulogne- 

Maiid.     That  ingrate ! 

Chester.  For  whose  vast  ingratitude 

To  our  late  sovereign  lord,  your  noble  sire. 
The  generous  Earl  condoles  in  his  mishaps, 
And  with  a  sort  of  lackeying  friendliness, 
Talks  off  the  mighty  frowning  from  his  brow. 
Woos  him  to  hold  a  duet  in  a  smile, 
Or;  if  it  please  him,  play  an  hour  at  chess 


1 6  KING  STEPHEN. 


Maud.  A  perjured  slave! 

Chester.  And  for  his  perjury, 

Glocester  has  fit  rewards — nay,  I  believe, 
He  sets  his  bustling  household's  wits  at  work 
For  flatteries  to  ease  this  Stephen's  hours, 
And  make  a  heaven  of  his  purgatory  ; 
Adorning  bondage  with  the  pleasant  gloss 
Of  feasts  and  music,  and  all  idle  shows 
Of  indoor  pageantry  ;  while  syren  whispers, 
Predestined  for  his  ears,  'scape  as  half-check'd 
From  lips  the  courtliest  and  the  rubiest, 
Of  all  the  realm,  admiring  of  his  deeds. 

Maud.    A  frost  upon  his  summer ! 

Chester..  A  queen's  Qod 

Can  make  his  June  December.     Here  he  comes. 


« 


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